


Quorum

by sparklyslug



Series: In the Course of Human Events [1]
Category: Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - College/University, M/M, Politics AU, ask not what your fandom can do for you, but what you can do for your fandom, loki for scheming campaign manager, presidential au, thor for president
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2012-09-17
Updated: 2013-06-01
Packaged: 2017-11-14 10:14:19
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 72,863
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/514143
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sparklyslug/pseuds/sparklyslug
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p><b> Quo•rum: </b><br/><b> 1:</b> a select group<br/><b> 2: </b> the number (as a majority) of officers or members of a body that when duly assembled is legally competent to transact business.</p><p>  <i>“So why would you need me to recruit one donor?” Loki shoots back. “I am just a little bit busy. With a presidential campaign. You know, recovering from the primaries. Trying to get Thor in the Oval Office. Just a few things to manage.”</i></p><p>In which Thor's running for President, Loki's his campaign manager, and Tony Stark is the last person Loki wants to ask for help but the only person whose help he really needs.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> I've stolen a lot of current political events for this fic, but hopefully not so many that it's confusing for anyone who's not as much of a dork for politics as I am. Also, admittedly due to my own political bias, I made Thor, Loki, and Tony all Democrats. Just some warning in advance, because I don't want to piss anyone off.

  
[](http://imgur.com/gHk4x)   


“Here, I got you coffee.”

Loki looks at the cup that’s landed on his desk. Even with the lid on, the sweet spice of cinnamon syrup washes over the newspapers littered over his desk, and he breathes it in hungrily. He’s subjected his body to an endless number of coffees lately, and more of them from the deeply questionable machine in the break room than he likes to think about. This, though. This is quality. He can smell it.

And he is instantly suspicious. He doesn’t even bother glancing up at Sif. “Absolutely not.”

“What?” She says, feigning innocence. “I didn’t put any cream in it or anything.”

“I mean,” Loki clarifies, looking up so he can pin her to the wall with a glare. “I am absolutely not going to do whatever favor it is you came here to ask me to do. Not after last time.”

Sif seems deeply unimpressed by his glare, and turns one of her own back at him. “I can’t just stop by and say hello?”

“Fundraising HQ is twenty blocks away.”

“I could be meeting a client.”

“And the Falcon is another ten,” he says, turning the cup so the coffee shop's name is easier to read. “Besides, even if I thought you’d leave that palace you call an office for some client, it certainly wouldn’t be to meet them at the Falcon. And,” he adds, when she opens her mouth to protest. “Thor’s not even here.”

“Hmm,” she says, still trying to glare though she can’t quite fight off a growing smile. “Darn, there’s just no fooling you, is there? You’re much too smart.”

“I keep telling people that,” Loki sighs, reaching for the coffee and savoring the warmth of it between his palms. “But for some reason no one gets it.”

Sif laughs. “Oh, trust me. They get it. Anyone who’s bothered to look past Thor’s booming let’s-get-a-beer appeal gets it. Not to mention any of his political enemies. I think Karl Ymir still flinches whenever anyone mentions your name.”

Loki takes a slow sip. God, he really needs to make the trip to the Falcon more often. He doesn’t get out of campaign headquarters enough anyway, and he needs to break that horrible hold that the ancient coffeemaker in the hallway has over him. “Flattery now, Sif? This favor has got to be pretty big.”

She walks over to the side of his desk and perches a hip on it, smoothing out the lines in her perfectly tailored pants as she speaks. “Alright. I want you to help me recruit a donor.”

Loki’s eyebrows shoot up. He can’t help it. “Me? Isn’t that _your_ job _?_ ”

“Don’t sound so superior,” Sif flashes a sharp smile. “You could be doing your part for fundraising too, you know. Not that we need you, since I am the greatest thing that’s ever happened to this campaign.”

“So why would you need me to recruit _one_ donor?” Loki shoots back. “I am just a little bit busy. With a presidential campaign. You know, recovering from the primaries. Trying to get Thor in the Oval Office. Just a few things to manage.”

“Well, with your magical ability to pull it all off, as you undoubtedly will, you should have plenty of time to sink your teeth into the challenge that is Tony Stark.”

Loki puts down his coffee.

Sif crosses her arms.

“You’re joking,” he says. “You have to be joking.”

“He’s worked with Thor before. On the legislation for defense contracting regulations two years ago, and again last year on the new proposed regulations.”

“I remember,” Loki says, icily.

She dismisses his tone with a wave of her hand. “He’s involved in politics, and not just in a padding-his-own-pockets way, because honestly he could sign over half of his income in taxes and still be able to buy a small island for his personal assistant every Christmas. And he would do it, too; he’s one of the most vocal supporters of the Buffett Rule. He probably does give away half of his income on his philanthropic efforts as it is, and he kissed his position as king of the biggest weapons manufacturer in the world goodbye for purely moral reasons. And then revolutionized the energy business like it was easy.

“As far as social issues go it’s a little harder to tell, but from what we’ve been able to tell through interviews and some investigating, we think he’d be in line with most of Thor’s platform issues as well.”

“Sif--” Loki begins to say, but Sif waves him off again.

“We could seriously use a big business heavyweight on our side, image-wise,” she goes on. “And, have I mentioned, he’s absurdly wealthy? We could really, really use both his spoken support and his donation. He helped out on Maria Hill’s campaign last year, and though I can’t name names, a source has told me that seven zeroes may or may not have been involved. Of course, he can’t give that much to us directly, but if we can get his donation he might throw something to our SuperPAC friends. And really the boost for Thor’s image would be even better than the money. The Baltimore thing just refuses to die, I think I know Rush Limbaugh’s rant on it by heart at this point.”

“Sif,” Loki stands up, looking down at her. “I know all this already.”

“So you know we need him,” she says, still sitting and not looking at all intimidated by his height.

“I do,” Loki says slowly. “But why are you coming to me? Tackling the big donors is what you do, Sif. And you’re better at it than anyone else. Best thing that ever happened to this campaign, right?”

She reaches across his desk for his coffee, and takes a sip. Loki says nothing. He realizes that she’s stalling. And Sif never stalls. She strides in, taking no prisoners and expressing no doubts.

This can’t be good.

“Come on, Sif,” he says finally. “What’s the real problem?”

She takes another sip. “Much as it pains me to admit it,” she says finally, passing the cup over to him. “He won’t deal with me.”

“What does that mean?”

“It means,” she says carefully. “That he’s a fan of your work.”

“Oh,” Loki covers his eyes with a hand. “I don’t believe this.”

“He’s not interested in talking to me, or Volstagg, or even Fandral.”

“You threw Fandral at him?” Loki almost has to smile.

Sif shrugs. “Hey, if Stark puts his preferences out there for the world to see, I’m not above sending a blonde to do a brunette’s work. But even his well-documented penchant for a pretty face got us nowhere.”

“Poor Fandral.”

“Yes, it was quite the blow. But the point is,” Sif stands up, and even in her lethal-looking pointy-toed flats she still doesn’t have too far to look up into Loki’s face. “He wants to meet with you.”

Loki’s smile dies a quick death. “No.”

“Loki, we really need this.”

Loki doesn’t yell, ever. But his silkily soft and knife-edged voice has been known to reduce Congressmen to tears. “Don’t lecture me on what we need, Sif. There’s nothing I wouldn’t do for my brother, or this campaign. You know how much it means to me. To both of us.”

“I know,” she says, naturally mightier than a mere Congressman and therefore immune to his tone. Still, she pauses before saying, “I already talked to Thor about it.”

Loki turns away from her, facing the window. He realizes he’s still holding the coffee, so he takes a sip. Might as well.

“He told me that I should forget about Stark, and we don’t need him.”

Loki covers the smile with another sip. Typical Thor, still thinking he needs to look after his little brother. “So of course, you headed right over to tell me how much we do need him.”

“Thor knows what’s at stake,” Sif says. “When I talked to him about approaching Stark at the beginning of the month he was emphatic that he wanted to get him on board. But now this complication happens, and he’s fine with just letting him go? I don’t know what’s the story with you and Stark, but I get that it’s complicated. And I wouldn’t touch it, unless it was really important.”

Loki doesn’t say anything. The coffee doesn’t taste that good anymore.

“Think about it,” Sif says. “Thor won’t ask you to do it. He’s a good guy, and an even better brother. But I know what has to be done, and so do you.”

“We don’t need Tony Stark to win,” Loki says.

“Maybe not,” Sif allows generously. “But still, give me a call if you change your mind.”

She reaches out and gives his shoulder a squeeze, and closes the door of his office behind her when she leaves.

Loki takes another sip of coffee, looking out across the skyline through the cheap plastic Venetian blinds.

Well, shit.

~

He had always hated it when people compared his family to the Kennedys. Okay, it’s America, everyone has a huge hard-on for whatever kind of royalty they can find, but Loki had never wanted his family to be seen like that.

It wasn’t even accurate, anyway. Alright, so Odin Gard had been Chief Justice of the Supreme Court since roughly the dawn of time. And some of Loki’s uncles and aunts were House Representatives and Senators. And Frigga had been Governor of New York when she’d met Odin. So they had some pedigree there, Loki could admit it.

But Odin had never pushed his sons in the direction of politics. Fine, Baldr had gone the law school then politics route. But he had gotten there first by majoring in English and getting his poetry published in literary magazines while he was only seventeen. Thor had wanted to enlist in the Army for as long as any of them could remember; not as some sort of jumping-off point into something more prestigious but out of sheer patriotism. Odin had pushed him through West Point, admittedly, but only because Thor would have enlisted straight out of high school otherwise.

Of course, the world wasn’t privy to the inner workings of the Gard family. So by the time Loki started college all anyone else knew was that Odin Gard’s oldest son had just graduated from law school and the middle one was going to serve his country. Real Kennedy material, there. Except for that youngest son, who was going to Berkeley instead of Princeton or West Point, and was set on a History and Art double major.

Still, the public seemed willing to forgive him that. They tracked Baldr’s first bid for the Senate eagerly, swooned over pictures of Thor in his navy blue uniform jacket at his graduation, and speculated about which path Loki would take. And over all their faces, reliably, a headline screaming some variation of “AMERICA’S PRINCES.”

Loki found it ridiculous, and also offensive as a student of history. American royalty shouldn’t be some family like Loki’s, that had more or less breathed money for generations. It should be a family that had lived the American dream, worked their way into prosperity and the public eye through sheer brains and determination.

A family very much like the Starks.

And there had been some buzz, unsurprisingly, when it transpired that there would be not one but two kids with famous last names attending UC Berkeley at the same time. Kids with legacies, and very big ones, to live up to.

Tony Stark was roughly of an age with Loki, though by that time he had already finished his undergraduate degree at MIT. He was getting his MBA at the Haas School of Business when Loki started. And if Tony hadn’t decided to start learning a few languages on the side, just for fun, they probably never would have met.

But Tony Stark, instantly recognizable from tabloid headlines and TV interviews, had walked into the Dwinelle Hall classroom for Russian 101, and Loki wasn’t the only one who had been stunned silent. The professor, who would prove to be an otherwise terrifying and unflappable woman, dropped all of her notes and gaped.

“ _Da,_ ” Tony affirmed, nodding at her seriously and dropping into the seat next to Loki.

The classroom of twenty-five students was absolutely silent.

“I seem to have walked out of my apartment without my bag, _again_ ,” Tony said, turning to Loki and grinning at him like they had been friends for years. “Got an extra pencil tucked away somewhere, comrade?”

Loki had always been the most reserved of the family, more likely to go off and read by himself while Thor and Baldr went out with hordes of noisy friends. He’d _had_ friends, he just was never able to make them as quickly or in such great numbers. He’d grown up in the national spotlight, for all that his parents had tried to give each of them a normal childhood. And Loki had always been keenly aware of it. It didn’t seem to bother his brothers much, but it made Loki more... careful with whom he let close to him.

But as he passed a spare pen over to Tony Stark, Loki found himself answering the other kid’s grin with a broad one of his own. And when class ended and Tony fell into step next to Loki, bemoaning their already grueling homework schedule, they got all the way to the cafeteria before it even occurred to Loki that maybe he should tread carefully around Tony, not let himself give away too much.

But by then, of course, it was already too late.

~

The coffee that Sif brought him was good, but could only keep him going for so long.

“One day, your reign of terror will end,” Loki says mournfully to the coffeemaker before him as it rattles and hisses steam. “I solemnly swear it. Someday.”

“Talking to the coffee machine again?” He hadn’t heard Darcy come up behind him, as all other sounds are masked by the racket of the ancient bean-grinding monster. She stands next to him, and crosses her arms. “Got to be a sign of insanity. Time to put the wheels of my coup in motion, I think.”

“You are an intern,” Loki points out severely, not sure as always whether Darcy is his favorite or most hated staff member “You have to take out the whole campaign before you can take over my job.”

“It’s not a monarchy, dude,” she says, flipping through the selection of tea bags available until she finds an Earl Grey. “I can just take you out and put myself in at the top. Way easier.”

“‘Dude’?” Loki echoes.

“Vernacular of the young folks; I’ll send you the Rosetta Stone program,” she says calmly. Favorite or hated? It’s so hard, especially when he’s hitting a caffeine low. “I was just going to your office, actually. Heimdall wants to talk to you.”

The communications director rarely comes to Loki, unless it’s for something fairly major. “Huh,” Loki says. “I just got through this morning’s papers, and there was nothing too noteworthy in any of them. Nothing that Heimdal would be worried about, anyway. What’s it all about?”

“Osborn’s new ads are out,” Darcy says. “Going for the big guy pretty hard.”

Loki shrugs. “That’s how it goes. The ads we’ve been running in Ohio and Iowa are pretty aggressive, his camp was bound to send something back our way before too long.”

“Right,” Darcy says. “But the pundits are squawking about this one. They’re putting the spin on some of his committee work from last year. And playing up Baltimore hardcore.”

Fucking Baltimore. Even if he’s yet to be caffeinated, Loki can still sense trouble coming. “What about his committe work?”

“That he’s just been paying lip service to business interests, and that his overall involvement in regulations and stuff is crap and he knows nothing, basically. Plus, you know, Baltimore.”

Loki rubs a hand over his mouth. This isn’t good.

“Osborn’s got his business background to fall back on, so they’re pulling that for his expertise, I guess,” Darcy muses. Then, as Loki turns suddenly and stalks off. “Where are you going? You forgot your coffee! I’m not kidding about that coup!”

~

 

About ten minutes into her show, Rachel Maddow turns her attention to the Osborn ads: “It wouldn’t be an election year without some really good mudslinging, and President Norman Osborn is bringing plenty of it to TVs across the battleground states. The ads started running just yesterday, but what’s unsual about this strategy is that the Osborn campaign is running three different ads, but all with the same message. Safe to say, this will probably be President Osborn’s main focus on the Senator’s failings as a future President, and how he hopes to convince Americans to vote Republican in November.”

On Loki’s tiny office TV, Rachel Maddow nods and the screen switches to a clip of the ad. As Heimdall had said, it goes after Thor’s inexperience with business (with delicate hints that Senator Gard is perhaps too young to have much experience of any kind with anything). It disparages the uselessness of his business-related efforts in the Senate, sniffs at the proposed legislation that had been shot down as idealistic and dangerous in such times of economic instability, and outright mocks his more recent efforts to introduce more stringent regulations.

And then, the coup de grace: Baltimore. Loki knows that the broader context of what Thor says was about the importance of government in helping people succeed. But the only part of the speech the attack ad shows (the only part of the speech _anyone_ ever shows now) is the part where Thor smiles and says: “If you’re a success, you didn’t do it on your own.”

Loki has already seen it plenty of times by now. But it still makes him want to kick something.

The ad wraps up with a sentence or two about Osborn’s experience and business background, but it’s clear that Thor’s the real focus.

Rachel Maddow returns, and continues speaking. “Republicans have been struggling to find an angle on Senator Gard’s candidacy for months, as the usually unified voice of the party seemed to be splintering after Gard’s victory in the Democratic primaries.” She smiles. “Not that you can blame them. A wounded war hero from one of American politics’ most famed and accomplished families? And a guy who’s also the youngest candidate to seek the Presidency since William Jennings Bryan made his first run at it in 1896?”

The reference to his family doesn’t bother Loki as much as it used to. He maybe had a right to be indignant about it when he was younger. But it’s hard to object to the whole American royalty thing when they’ve ended up in politics after all.

Rachel Maddow goes on. “Opponents and pundits have been trying to get a bad angle on the Senator, but it’s not easy. And as a bonus, we all know the romance: Gard married former war correspondent Jane Foster just two years ago. The two met while on his first tour.

“His first term in the Senate has been surprisingly ambitious, and his work has managed to be more bipartisan than much of the legislation recently seen. Possibly because, as all our insiders have said, he’s just so darn likeable.”

Cut to a picture of Thor, eating at Ben’s Chili Bowl with a huge smile and chili all over his face. Loki grins.

“So, what’s the chink in the armor for Gard? It’s a tough time for Democrats to make the connection to business, and that’s clearly Osborn’s focus here. Gard’s less successful attempts in the Senate have all been connected to economic reform in one way or another, and although the speech you just saw in the ad was made in Baltimore, Maryland more than four months ago, it’s hardly been forgotten. The argument can be made that as he’s already been a soldier and a politician, he can’t possibly be a businessman too. Apart from his youth, which will also be a challenge the Gard campaign will have to overcome, this could be the first sign of a united Republican offensive plan against Gard.

The show switches to talking about the Higgs Boson particle, and Loki turns off the tiny TV.

Out of all of his staff, Loki only ever allows Fenrir Argent in his office to watch the nightly parade of news shows and pundits. Fenrir’s the data director so this kind of thing isn’t a huge part of his job, but it’s become a nightly tradition for him and Loki. Most of his staff are required to have some knowledge of what’s going on in the media, but Loki never lets them watch with him. It’s something about people who work in politics; they all talk too much while watching TV. But Fenrir knows when to be quiet, so that and the fact that he’s one of Loki’s oldest friends gives him special access to TV time with the campaign manager.

“So,” Loki says, sitting on his desk and turning to Fenrir. “That about sums it up, doesn’t it?”

Fenrir nods. “That’s the nicest way most of them have put it.”

“Why do you think I save her for last?” Loki says, but his mind’s already elsewhere. “Shit.”

“What’s up?” Fenrir asks. “You’ve been really twitchy about this whole thing with the ads. It’s not that surprising, right? We knew they’d come at us with something like this.”

“I know. But... ” Loki says. “Here, have a hypothetical: suppose that there was a savvy, smart, very famous businessman who could throw his support behind Thor. Really shore up his reputation with the business interests, and persuade the business community that Thor knows what he’s doing and cares about them. What lengths should we... how serious would that be for the campaign?”

Fenrir frowns at Loki as his thinks it over, but it only takes a second or two for his eyes to go wide. “No way.”

“I said hypothetical,” Loki says quickly.

“Tony Stark? You’re bringing _Tony Stark_ on to the campaign? I thought you weren’t speaking to him!”

“No one said anything about bringing him on the campaign,” Loki snaps. “Just an endorsement, a public statement or two. Sif’s been trying to court him as a donor.”

Fenrir runs a hand through his perpetually unkempt mop of black hair. “So what’s the issue? If Sif wants him, she’ll get him. No reason you should be involved at all.”

Loki shifts, getting up off the desk to walk behind it. He doesn’t sit, just leans forward and rests his fingertips on top of the morning’s pile of papers. “He’s playing hard to get. Which, considering it’s Sif, is practically a Herculean feat.”

“No way,” Fenrir says again, clearly putting the pieces together himself already.

“Yeah. He wants to meet. He won’t deal, unless I’m the one to... to court him.”

There’s silence in the office. Some noise of conversation filters in from outside, but it’s a low murmur, nothing Loki can make out clearly.

Loki’s still trying to be mad at this whole thing, but he’s been trying to be mad all day and it’s starting to wear off. And that’s so much worse. Because what does he have, if he can’t be angry at this shit that Tony is pulling?

“Don’t do it,” Fenrir says firmly. “We don’t need him. No way you should have to play his game just to get some votes from a group of people that don’t like us much anyway. Forget it.”

“We do need him,” Loki says, straightening up. “I’ve been trying to think clearly about it all day, but we do. Tony’s worked with Thor before; his politics are probably the best match we’re going to get from anyone in the business world. He’s high-profile, he’s smart. If he wasn’t a CEO I’d want him for one of Thor’s advisors. We need to fix his business image, and this is the best way to do it. It’s the _only_ way to do it.”

Fenrir doesn’t say anything, he just shakes his head mournfully. But he doesn’t say anything.

Loki sighs. “I haven’t talked to him in... god, more than ten years. Even when they were working together and Thor was going to his office every day. I never...”

He looks at Fenrir.

Fenrir gets out of the chair, and reaches across the desk to put his hand on Loki’s shoulder. He’s been getting a lot of arm squeezes today. Nice to know everyone’s so concerned in such a touchy way.

“This,” Fenrir says. “Is going to be completely terrible.”

Loki snorts a laugh. “Thanks. Now go home, I have to call Sif.”

And as Fenrir leaves, Loki picks up the phone and, after only the slightest hesitation, dials.

~

 

Russian is a really, really hard language to learn.

Loki had looked it up before starting the class. As far as difficulty goes it’s below Chinese, since it’s not tonal, but it’s about level with Japanese and Korean. Loki was undaunted by this. He’d been going through a Pushkin and Lermontov phase, and wanted to give it a try.

“God, this was a terrible idea,” Tony groaned, two weeks before their midterm. “You know I’ve put more work into this class than any of my other classes? My _MBA classes?_ ”

He was stretched out on Loki’s bed, having turned the whole thing into a nest of flash cards and grammar notes. Loki sat on the floor, surrounded by a similar papery explosion.

“You’ve only got two other classes this semester,” he said, not looking up from the textbook spread open in his lap.

“I’m a graduate student, okay, pleb?” Tony stretched out a socked foot and poked Loki in the shoulder with his toe. “Show an upperclassman some respect.”

“My Calc class’ midterm is the day after this one,” Loki said, batting Tony’s foot away from him, still not looking up. “And I have the preliminary bibliography due for my Black Death paper next week. You don’t even have any other midterms.”

 _“_ Not ones that I’m studying for,” Tony agreed. “MIT was at least _interesting_. I’m only doing this MBA thing because Obadiah thinks it’ll be good for me later on. It’s not even that hard.”

Even if they hadn’t gotten to be friends, Loki would’ve known who Tony was referring to. Obadiah Stane was the CEO of Stark Industries, a company he’d built up with Tony’s father before Howard Stark’s death. Tony’d lost his mother in that crash too, but most versions of the story focused more on the loss of the genius inventor. Loki had never asked, but he was fairly sure that Tony didn’t like those versions of the story much.

“You’ll be a great CEO,” Loki said, nodding with mock-solemnity at Tony to mask his sincerity.

“Whatever, I’ll probably never leave the R and D department.”

“The what?”

“Research and Development. I’ll just be blowing stuff up mostly, which is just what I do now but with more toys,” Tony’s eyes lit up, and he pushed the papers on the bed aside so he could sit up. Some of the flash cards fell off the bed, but Tony didn’t seem to notice. “I’ve been drawing up some cool specs for a hot rod engine. Just for fun, but _man_ when I make it, we’ve gotta take that baby out because it’ll be _amazing._ ”

Loki snorted. “Uh huh. Like you’ll have time for building a car with daily worksheets and reading assignments.”

“God, you are so terrible. You’re the killer of fun,” Tony said, standing up. “This has to be fixed.”

“Are you leaving?” Loki asked as Tony shuffled into his sneakers. He sounded casual, he knew he did. Like he didn’t mind if Tony stayed or went, whatever.

“ _We’re_ leaving,” Tony corrected, leaning down and pulling the textbook away from Loki. “The exam isn’t for two weeks, it’s a Friday, and we’re going out. Come on.”

Loki laughed, and got to his feet obediently. If it was anything like last weekend, they’d go out for a bit, choke down some really terrible cheap beer, and dance like idiots. They might end up on the couch in Tony’s apartment again, watching the Disney Channel and getting all worked up about subliminal messaging and the subtextual forbidden loves that were playing out between all the characters.

He’d never liked going out before he met Tony. But he was putting up less and less of a fight every weekend, savoring the feeling of building something like a tradition.

~

It’s a Friday, and that means dinner with Thor and Jane. It often means dinner with Odin and Frigga too, but they’re on a cruise through the fjords of Norway, possibly just so that Frigga can make delighted Monty Python references for months. So, just the three of them tonight.

Loki brings wine over to the apartment that Thor and Jane share, and tries to figure out how to explain how messed up everything has become in just a day.

“I _told_ Sif,” Thor doesn’t actually pound a fist on the table, but it’s a close thing. “I told her we didn’t need Stark. Why didn’t she listen to me?”

“Sif never listens to anyone,” Loki points out, drinking deeply from his glass.

“Seems pretty harsh though,” Jane says, only barely looking up from her notes on her recent trip to Greece. She does refill Loki’s glass as soon as he sets it down though. He knew there was a reason he approved of her right from the start.

“That’s Sif,” Thor says.

“That’s campaigning,” Loki corrects.

“It was never like this for the Senate race. With the attack ads and you prostituting yourself to get me elected.”

“ _Prostitut--”_ Loki sputters, but Jane’s already sailing in with: “Come on Thor, you’ve seen presidential elections before, you know how they can get.”

“Okay, the attack ads I was prepared for,” Thor admits. “But for Loki to--”

“If you say prostituting again,” Loki threatens. “I will throw you out a window. I’m going to a _business lunch_. Not even a dinner. It’s not a date.”

“Where are you going?” Jane asked. “Nowhere with too much... atmosphere?”

“I’m not sure about the decor, but it’s some place in the first floor of Stark Tower,” Loki says vaguely.

“His territory,” Thor mutters.

“Did he say what he wants?” Jane asks. “Or, did Sif say what he wants?” Jane knows pretty much everything about the whole Loki and Tony thing, because Thor knows everything about the whole Loki and Tony thing. Loki values his secrets, but he’s accepted by now that anything he tells Thor will in turn be told to Jane.

“The satisfaction of seeing me grovel, I’m guessing,” Loki says, smiling and taking another deep gulp of wine. “We’ll see.”

“Don’t go,” Thor says again. “I don’t need it.”

“You do,” Loki says tiredly. “And it’s not the end of the world. Everything happened over ten years ago, we might as well be grown ups about it now.”

“Do you think that’s what he wants to do? Extend the olive branch?” Jane asks.

“I really doubt it,” Loki says. “But don’t worry. I’ll be fine.”

“I don’t like it,” Thor says, pushing his chair back and rising slowly. “I don’t like it at all, Loki.”

Both Loki and Jane watch carefully as Thor puts his weight on the sturdy wooden cane resting against the table. But they don’t offer to help, and Thor pretends not to notice them watching him. It’s an old routine.

Thor moves slowly over to the kitchen, still unable to put more than a little weight on his right leg after all this time. He opens the fridge and pulls out another beer, twisting the cap off easily without a bottle opener, just a wrench of his big hand.

“You don’t have to like it. It’s just a professional lunch,” Loki says, turning his attention to his own fingers, looking very thin and pale against the stem of his wine glass. “And I’m not kidding about the window thing.” He looks at Thor’s worried face, and relents. “If he tries to take it anywhere beyond the business we have to discuss, I’ll just walk out. He’s a billionaire, I have no problem leaving him with the check.”

Thor clearly still isn’t happy, but he takes a drag from his beer and doesn’t object as Jane smoothly changes the subject to her much less emotionally charged business lunch with Anderson Cooper. Loki takes a break from the wine for a bit and tries to focus his full attention on the conversation.

He switches back to wine again though before too long, since at least getting buzzed can be his excuse for being so distracted.

~

His last final finished, Loki had walked out into the balmy California May weather with a huge smile. Done with his first year of college. He was a sophomore. Holy shit. He tipped his face up into the sun, and heaved out a huge sigh of relief.

He was in such a daze, he didn’t notice the flashy red convertible pulling up next to him until the driver beeped.

Loki jumped, and let out a noise that was embarrassingly close to a squeal. But no one heard it over the sound of Tony Stark laying on the horn and letting out what sounded like a barbarian battle cry.

“Told you I’d do it,” Tony yelled when he was done whooping.

“You’re insane!” Loki laughed. “When the hell did you have time to make it?”

He stepped up to the convertible, running a hand over its gleaming hood and tracing the swooping lines of gold detailing that slashed along the side of the car.

When he looked up, still grinning, Tony was smiling back. Not his big and irresistible smile, the one Tony had been flashing at photographers for years before he’d even met Loki. This one was quieter, smaller, and infinitely warmer. Loki had been seeing it more and more often lately.

“Told you, I didn’t have to study that much,” Tony said. “Well, except for fucking Russian. Plus, you know how it is, nothing cures insomnia like building an engine block. Glass of warm milk and a blowtorch, Grandma Stark always swore by it.”

“Is it safe?” Loki asked doubtfully, colorful images of Tony laughing maniacally from behind a welding mask popping up in his head. Not exactly confidence-inspiring.

“Let’s find out,” Tony said, grinning wickedly and laying on the horn again. A few people turned around to see what was going on.

“Okay, okay,” Loki said, pulling open the passenger door and sliding in. “Just so you know, if you kill me I will haunt the shit out of this car.”

“I’ll paint it green in your memory,” Tony said seriously. He revved the engine loudly, and Loki felt the noise vibrating in his chest before Tony stomped on the gas and they roared off.

Tony avoided major highways where he could, finding the nearly deserted backroads and roaring down them, faster than Loki had ever been in a car before. Loki’s whole body couldn’t decide whether to be petrified or exhilarated, and seemed to settle on both, with a huge side of adrenaline.

“Told you it’d be awesome,” Tony yelled over the noise of the car. “Been dreaming this baby up all year, and it’s finally ours.”

Loki didn’t answer, just stuck his head out over the side and let out a wolf-like howl, closing his eyes against the wind.

After what felt like hours and hundreds of miles, Tony pulled into the parking lot of a park Loki had never been to before.

“Where are we?” Loki asked, looking around at the deserted playground and well-kept green lawn.

“Not sure,” Tony said. He got out of the car and opened the trunk, still talking. “There’s a statue to some Civil War General or something over there. Could be named after him, I forget. It’s got a killer swingset though, and that’s what counts.”

“Obviously,” Loki agreed solemnly. Then, when Tony slammed the trunk closed, Loki saw what he’d taken out of it: “Oh my god, is that a picnic basket?”

“We’re done for the year,” Tony said. “Time to celebrate.”

Let it never be said that Tony Stark was a gourmet chef. Not at nineteen, at least. But the peanut butter and jelly sandwiches, bottles of Coke, and bags of potato chips were perfect anyway. They sprawled out on the grass, Loki finally getting Tony to agree to a spot in the shade since Loki had always practically burst into flames at the slightest hint of sun.

Loki could never really remember what they talked about afterwards. Even at the time the conversation was easy, lazy, and Loki had been more focused on the feeling of the grass under his skin, the wind riffling through the leaves of the trees, dappled patches of sunlight shifting over the pair of them.

“You’re leaving on Thursday, right?” Tony asked after a while.

Loki, who had been closing his eyes, opened one to look over at him. “Yeah. My flight is some crazy time in the morning, so I was thinking about heading over to the airport Wednesday night and just sleeping over.”

“I can drive you,” Tony said.

“Thanks, but I think getting arrested could throw a wrench in my departure plans.”

“Sounds even better,” Tony said. “You can stay with me this summer.”

Loki sat up on his elbows, looking warily at Tony. He’d never said anything like that before. “I’ve got to go home,” Loki said. “I’m interning for Baldr this summer.”

“I know, I was just joking,” Tony said, though he sounded annoyed. “Why are you interning anyway? You hate politics.”

Loki shrugged. “He’s my brother, he wants my help. And I think he misses Thor, they both get mopey when they’re apart.” He’d stopped marvelling at it by then, how easy it was to tell Tony things that he had never told anyone else, never thought he would tell anyone else. And it wasn’t even that _hard_. It just happened, Loki handing over his confidence in Tony and Tony accepting it like it was no big deal.

“He doesn’t get any leave this summer?”

“Nah, not until Christmas, I think. Hey,” Loki said. “Why don’t you come stay with us?”

Tony stilled, but then let out a big laugh. “Tony Stark, staying over in Odin Gard’s house? What will the neighbors say?”

“I’m serious,” Loki said. “The townhouse is way too big, there’s plenty of room. You can stay as long as you like. It wouldn’t be a problem.” He didn’t say the rest of what he was thinking, that the idea of Tony puttering around the empty campus with no classes to take and no home to go to had been worrying him for weeks. He also didn’t say that he wasn’t sure what he’d do without Tony for almost four months, and the idea of _that_ made him even more nervous.

“I’ll think about it,” Tony said, smiling the quiet smile at Loki again. “Thanks.”

Tony leaned forward to steal a chip from the bag sitting on Loki’s stomach, and as simple as that they were caught in a Moment. Loki had never had a Moment before, but he recognized it instantly, instinctively.

Resting his weight on one arm bare inches from Loki’s ribs, in leaning over Tony had sent most of his upper body hovering just over Loki’s. If Loki sat up any more, or arched his back at all, they would come into contact. If the realization that he was even _thinking that thought_ caused him to twitch or make any physical sign of what was happening, Tony didn’t notice. He rummaged in the bag of chips and Loki could feel the motion of it through his shirt.

But Tony looked up to put a chip in his mouth, and Loki _knew_ that he felt it then too. He hadn’t moved away at all, and tilting his head up to look at Loki brought their faces so close that Loki thought he could smell the peanut butter on Tony’s breath.

It was a Moment, and they both knew it.

Tony stuffed the chip in his mouth and sat back abruptly. “I don’t know about you, but I am in serious need of a turn on that swingset. Come on, let’s go recapture our childhoods.” And he got to his feet quickly, walking off towards the playground.

Loki got up, trying to process what had happened. And how to feel about it. But looking at Tony walking away from him, and listening to him babble about his garage full of old fixer uppers he wanted to fully fix up, Loki gave himself a mental shake. It was all in his head. Had to be.

~

When Loki wakes up the Saturday morning after dinner with Thor and Jane, he’s only vaguely hungover. It’s more that he can feel the gummy taste of state alcohol on his breath, and has the slight fuzziness and headache that is unmistakable evidence that he had, in fact, been drinking the night before.

He rolls over onto his back, the alarm clock function on his radio (Lakshmi Singh calmly delivering an update on the situation in Syria) playing on. Rain patters against the windows; it’s going to be one of New York’s wet July days.

He’d been dreaming about Tony, he remembers that much. He doesn’t remember the dream, exactly. But the pit in his stomach can only be the leftover effects of a Tony dream.

Or it could just be all the wine from last night.

“Jesus...” he breathes, rolling out of bed. Today is already going to be shitty, why start dwelling on Tony before he has to?

Loki hadn’t been involved in the plans to set up campaign headquarters in New York, but he’s certainly happy it had worked out that way. He doesn’t have to rent some crappy place that would serve as a sterile kind of home for the duration of the election; he can stay in his own apartment, where he’s lived since moving back from the West Coast.

Granted, he doesn’t spend much time here. Mostly just to fall into bed, if he doesn’t pass out at a strategy meeting with Thor, at his own desk, or on the couch in the break room.

But it is nice to at least be surrounded with the trappings of his life from that long ago time when he’d been able to live it: the bookshelves, mostly, though he hasn’t moved past the fourth chapter of _the Count of Monte Cristo_ in about two months. Free time was something that happened to other people. People who were not getting their brothers elected President.

Loki showers, listening to the morning news on his laptop. He sits it on the closed toilet seat and turns it up to top volume so he can hear it over the water. He listens intently, scrubs himself down vigorously with a loofah, trying not to hear the _seeing Tony seeing Tony_ that punctuates every pause in NPR’s narrative.

Easier said. Over ten years. He wasn’t up to working out the dates exactly, because that would involve even more tortuous repeat performances of the whole explosion in his head, and he’s doing enough of that as it is. But it had been at least ten years. Because he remembers the ten-year anniversary. Or rather, he remembers drinking enough to not remember anything at all.

And in all that time, he hasn’t seen Tony. Hasn’t spoken to him. And Tony hasn’t made an effort to change that.

Until now.

 _Why is he doing this?_ Loki thinks bitterly as he gets dressed.

 _Why now?_ He thinks as he changes into another shirt and adds a vest.

 _What’s the point?_ He thinks as he ducks into the bathroom to check his hair.

 _What does he want?_ He thinks as he changes into a third shirt.

“Oh for fuck’s sake,” he bursts out when he realizes what he’s doing. He turns around and stalks out of the apartment.

And comes back in, just five minutes later, having made it to the lobby before realizing he’d forgotten his briefcase and his raincoat.

“Well, this is bound to be a glorious success,” he mutters as he begins the walk to HQ.

~

 

“Why did you even bother coming to work today?” Fenrir asks after his third pass through the break room.  

He’d walked past Loki without comment the first two times, but after seeing the campaign manager still staring at the coffee maker the third time, apparently without having moved for the last fifteen minutes, he’d finally come up to him.

With him is Slip Sleipnir (her first name is really Pam, but the whole HQ started to call her ‘Slip’ after she’d brought a slip-and-slide to the first staff BBQ, which had led to a lot of drunken fun and bruises discovered the next morning), their national field director. Loki met her for the first time on this campaign, but likes her well enough not to glare her out of the room now.

“I’m fine,” Loki says to Fenir.

“Right,” Fenrir says slowly.

“The machine might work a little better if you press the ‘start’ button,” Slip says helpfully.

“Really?” Loki says flatly. “How fascinating. What witchcraft will they come up with next?”

“What time is your lunch with Stark?” Fenrir asks.

Loki shoots a quick look at Slip, but she’s frowning, clearly not sure why Loki should be so nervous about meeting with Tony Stark.

“Two,” Loki sighs. He feels guilty then for being such a jerk, and offers to Slip “We were friends in college, but we haven’t talked in a long time.”

“Ah,” Slip nods. “I get that. Facebook’s made reconnecting with some of my sorority sisters really awkward. It can be tough.”

“You were in a sorority?” Fenrir asks. “Really?”

“Kappa Kappa Gamma,” Slip confirms. “I went to a pretty small school though, so it wasn’t _Animal House_ or anything.”

“Huh, cool,” Fenrir says. “Loki and I avoided the Berkeley greek life like it was our job, so I have no experience with it really.”

Loki glowers at the coffeemaker. And jabs at the ‘start’ button. It grinds to life, the universally fantastic smell of grinding coffee beans reduced to what smells like dirty water.

“I really need to just start walking to the Falcon,” Loki says.

Fenrir and Slip exchange a meaningful look. “Want to sit in on our meeting?” Slip offers. “Darcy just went to get coffee from the Falcon, actually. We can text her to get one more, she worships you, so she’d be happy to do it.”

“Worships me?” Loki repeats. “Ha. She’ll probably poison it.”

“That’s right, focus on the positive,” Fenrir says. “We could really use your opinion on some resource allocation in the New England areas. Not going to be many surprises in those states, but might be good to pay it some attention now.”

Loki sighs. “Yeah, thanks. That sounds good.”

He buries himself in the work, arguing with Fenrir and Slip (who is a native of Vermont and so takes it somewhat personally that Loki dismisses the need to have too many volunteers there), formulating strategies and cutting turf to determine who is where at the moment, and who should be elsewhere as soon as possible.

It’s all numbers and theoreticals, and Loki calls up the Massachusetts field director for their input on how things are going there (not standard procedure, but his name is Ryota and he’s a friend from Thor’s Senatorial campaign so Loki doesn’t care), and Slip goes off on a rant on how New Hampshire sucks and Thor shouldn’t want their votes anyway.

He’d be lying if he said that he wasn’t thinking about the imminent lunchtime meeting. But this gives him something to put his mind to, and the time doesn’t drip by as slowly.

And, he reflects as Fenrir draws him into a nerdy historian rant about Rhode Island in the early days of colonialism, he does work with some truly excellent people.

~

That Moment hadn’t meant anything.

Loki told himself that almost on repeat during the whole plane trip back to DC.

Because weirdly, he hadn’t been thinking about Tony in that way. The biggest immediate effect of the Moment was making him realize that maybe it was weird that he _hadn’t_. Loki didn’t have much in the way of a type. Just someone hot and smart, he’d always thought.

Which, okay. Tony was definitely, definitely smart. And not just in a college-graduate-at-nineteen way, like everyone knew he was. Tony was also _sharp_ ; he could think faster than anyone Loki had ever met. He was wickedly funny, and sometimes just stupidly funny (Loki would never, ever understand the appeal of _Spongebob Squarepants_ , no matter what Tony said). And, alright, he was hot. He had a great body, all lean from the runs he took just to tire himself out enough to slow down his brain. And his face had been much admired by tabloid rags since he’d grown into that jawline. But it was his eyes that brought it to life, a deep, warm brown and fringed with eyelashes that really shouldn’t be allowed on anyone, ever. And when he smiled, they lit up and...

God _dammit._

By the time Loki got off the plane, he was starting to realize that he was in trouble.

“What the hell happened?” Baldr asked in the car ride back from Reagan International, after Loki had answered his older brother’s questions in nothing but grunts. “You’re in a really shitty mood.”

Loki looked at him balefully. But the three of them had never kept secrets from each other, so it was just natural for him to say, if still a little grumpily: “I just realized I might be into my best friend, like, two hours ago.”

“Tony?” Baldr said, eyebrows shooting up. “Aww, man. I’m sorry, that sucks.”

“Yeah,” Loki said, more interested in being angry than feeling sorry for himself.

Baldr looked at him consideringly, then leaned forward to tap on the glass separating them from Cliff, his driver. Cliff rolled it down, smiling at Baldr in the rearview mirror.

“Hey, Cliff— Change of plans, set a course for Kramer Books.” He turned back to Loki and grinned. “You need shiny editions of the complete works of Dumas, and then a brownie sundae.”

Loki smiled reluctantly. “Sure, make me feel even more like a teenaged girl about this.”

Baldr _tsked_ at him, which was not very dignified for a Senator. “Loki, I’m surprised at you, dude. Retail therapy and brownies are for _everyone_.”

“He might come visit,” Loki said finally, as the car spun out of Dupont Circle and slowed down in front of the bookstore/coffeeshop.

“That’d be cool,” Baldr said. “Any friend of yours is always cool to stay over, you know that.”

“Yeah, but you think it’d be a good idea?”

Baldr shrugged, holding the door open for Loki. “Will not seeing him make you feel any better about the whole thing?”

“No,” Loki admitted. “I mean, he’s still my best friend. I _want_ to see him. Just to... you know, hang out.”

“Then why not? Plus, we can have revealing family dinner discussions about all your hot exes and what a heartbreaker you are, and it’ll send him into a jealous freak-out. It works in movies all the time. Want me to help you make up a fake boyfriend? We can make him a real stud.”

“Shut up,” Loki said, but as usual his bad mood couldn’t withstand Baldr’s attack of ridiculousness. “Just pay for my sundae and stop talking, please.”

So, alright. Tony would still come to visit. He was still invited, and Loki made himself text Tony the first night he was home repeating the offer, before he lost his nerve. Tony was his best friend, and that was good. That was awesome. Loki wasn’t going to fuck that up.

Because the Moment hadn’t meant anything.

~

At noon, Loki thinks that he might be getting sick.

He wants to call Sif so she can call Tony (Loki has no way to contact him or his people directly, which is also annoying) and cancel. But he can’t do that, that would be ridiculous.

Besides, he has the national conference call at 12:30 to focus on.

“Right, so,” Loki says after the national field director and the national training director have finished up their reports. “You know Osborn’s putting out his first round of attack ads, since they’ve finally decided just screaming ‘but he’s so young’ might not be the most comprehensive of strategies. And so our focus on business has to be intensified.” _Keep it positive_ , he reminds himself, forcing a smile. “Don’t worry about it too much; we’re working on it, and it’s not a threat to Thor’s image overall by any means. As far as possible rebuttals to our first round of attack ads goes, this is almost ideal. Because we’ve got the facts: we’ve got Thor’s record with business legislation, and we’ve got Osborn’s not-too-shiny record with business too.”

He tries not to shift too much in front of the computer screen, also trying not to think of all the campaign HQs across the country, everyone gathered around screens and watching him avidly. He does pull a little at the bottom of his vest, but resists the impulse to push up his sleeves or something.

“So,” he continues. “For all of you, that means a little more focus on this. Get in touch with local businesses, reach out to them, emphasize the truth of Thor’s record and his message. We’ll send out a few ideas for organizing this kind of thing, local opportunities you can take advantage of, and talking points you should emphasize. Keep us posted with the feedback you’re getting, so we can see what’s worrying people about these ads.”

He looks over at his notes for the call.

“Okay, let’s hear from some of you on what’s been happening this week. Let’s start with Washington State, with California and Texas on deck. Go ahead.”

He leans back in his seat as the Seattle field director takes over with notes about the response at last weekend’s Pride parade. Loki has no problem with public speaking, but something about the videoconference format makes him nervous. And always has, so it can’t just be chalked up to what’s going on today.

 _We’re working on it,_ he thinks. _This is just work, think of it that way._

 _Work, sure,_ he thinks, though the voice has notes of Thor in it somewhere. _The oldest profession in the world, right?_

It takes a lot not to start hysterically giggling. See, this is why he hates videoconferences.

He focuses on what the field directors are saying and takes notes, because this is actually important. Once California and Texas have finished their thing, then he can go back to freaking out.

Because, after all, this is what he does. This is who he is. Tony, both this afternoon and as a whole, is just a blip. A footnote— no, not even that, an _endnote—_  to the whole story, to everything Loki’s become and worked for. He is more than what happens with Tony.  Past, present, and future.

It’s a comforting thought.

And Tony can’t take that away from him. This, this is all his own.

~

Tony came to visit in June. The weeks had flashed by; Loki keeping busy with work at Baldr’s office and feeling out of place in Washington DC again after a year away from it. Still, he’d talked with Tony almost every night and had been irrationally irritated on the nights that Tony couldn’t talk or Loki was too busy with his family.

So he’d been counting the days, refusing to write out an actual list of places to take Tony when he was in DC, because that would be ridiculous, but still creating an extensive one in his head. With mental bullet points and everything. And he met Tony at the airport, waving like a lunatic when he saw Tony coming around the security barrier.

“Aww, did someone miss me?” Tony said, but pulled Loki into a hug so fierce that it hurt his ribs a little.

“Umm, this is awkward, but I’m actually here meeting someone else,” Loki said. “My friend, Tony Stark? Average size, dark hair, would never wear rose-tinted sunglasses ever? Was he on your flight?”

“Hey,” Tony said, removing the offending pink eyewear to better frown at Loki. “What’s wrong with my sunglasses?”

“Nothing,” Loki said. “Nothing, you look great. Come on,” he added quickly, worried that he had sounded a little too fervent there. “Let’s go, traffic etc.”

“Lead on, Washington’s greatest son,” Tony said grandly. “Just as long as you lead to the baggage check first.”

Having Tony in the house was... weird.

Just in that worlds were colliding, in ways that they never had before. Loki’s friends in high school had gotten to know his parents as a matter of course, just by being in the house and at school events and everything. But Tony had become one of the most important people in Loki’s life while he was at Berkeley, and his parents and brothers didn’t know Tony as anything more than a name (though, okay, in Tony’s case the name still told them plenty).

And he kept being surprised by seeing Tony in places that were so familiar to him. Eating breakfast at the kitchen table. Kicking his feet up on the ottoman in Odin’s library, already seventy pages into some book about economic theory. Leaning against Loki’s windowsill, drinking tea from one of Frigga’s favorite mugs. Sitting on Loki’s bed, laughing at something Baldr had said.

Even stranger was how quickly it wore off. By the third day it felt completely natural to have Tony around.

 _Just adapting to it after being apart for a few weeks,_ Loki told himself. _Don’t read into it too much._

And he tried not to. He really did. But having Tony there felt really, really natural. It felt... it felt just like how home should be.

Fortunately, there was plenty to distract him from appalling thoughts like that. On the afternoon of the third day they went to wait out the soul-killing summer heat of DC in the National Portrait Gallery. Tony and Loki picked their favorites from each room, Tony listening avidly as Loki explained ideas of light and shadow, of composition and perspective.

Loki showed Tony his favorite sculpture in the whole thing: the Adams Memorial, a statue of a shrouded, androgynous figure, musing on death but expressing neither joy nor grief. It had always been Loki’s favorite, something about the figure catching him, capable of holding him in front of it for long stretches of time.

Tony stood in front of the statue in silence, looking into its shadowed face, his own unreadable.

“Wow,” he finally said, eyes still on the statue. Which was good, since Loki suspected his own face was broadcasting everything to the entire museum.

“I used to come visit it almost every day,” Loki said. “Just walking right to it and sitting in front of it for a while after school, during lunch sometimes even. Something about it... It’s hard not to think about it like it’s... alive, almost."

Tony turned to look at him then, not smiling, but with something very bright about his eyes.

After they’d exhausted the gallery they’d had to recover from a serious case of museum feet with some seriously delicious dim sum, and had taken the Metro two stops past the one they needed for Loki’s house because they were engrossed in a heated debate over Andy Warhol’s merits as an artist and as a human being and if the latter was as important as the former.

“Got you guys some beer,” Baldr said by way of greeting when they finally came in, putting his palm over the mouthpiece of his phone. “It’s in the fridge, you can take it up on the balcony if you want. Mom and Dad’re staying the night in New York.”

The balcony was technically off of Odin and Frigga’s room, but the Gard boys had basically colonized it. It was only big enough for a pair of lawn chairs and a spindly little table, but it overlooked their fenced-in backyard and some of the street beyond, the streetlights there bathing it in golden light at night. It had been the defacto site of countless late-night talks, and plenty of daytime sitting around and just being dumb together. Growing up, Loki had always had to sit on the floor or lean against the railing, since as the youngest he was not entitled to a chair. So this time he settled himself into one of the chairs with not a little bit of gloating satisfaction, reflecting on the bright side of them all growing up and leaving a space for him.

“Your brother is way too cool to be a Senator,” Tony said, “He was wearing Chuck Taylors with a suit. What the hell is that?”

“He does that all the time,” Loki scoffed. “But only when he doesn’t have to meet up with anyone too important. He likes to feel like a rebel, even though I tell him he’s too old, and part of the establishment.”

“You really are a shit of a little brother,” Tony said, in a tone of awed admiration.

“I’ve turned it into an art form,” Loki agreed.

There was a moment of silence, comfortable and punctuated nicely by the rustling of the trees in the backyard and the sound of  traffic filtering up from the busier streets a few blocks away.

“So,” Loki said. “What do you think? _Chez_ Gard everything you could have asked for and more?”

“It’s cool,” Tony said. “I keep picturing mini-you running around screaming your head off and stuff, so that’s fun. And it’ll help for the rest of the summer, so I’ll be able to picture you here instead of like, some big grey blob.”

“I’m offended that you’d think I live in a big grey blob,” Loki said, instead of thinking about Tony picturing him from afar.

“Well, I alternated between that and the White House, so don’t be _that_ offended,” Tony said. He took a deep drag from the beer bottle, and looked out at the yard. “Man,” he said, in a tone of surprising and abrupt intensity. “Going back is going to _really_ blow.”

“It didn’t sound so bad,” Loki said.

“I’m really sick of being surrounded by empty buildings,” was all Tony said, but with a soft heat Loki had never heard before. “I hate all the quiet. I hate not speaking to anyone for a whole day.”

“I can see where that would be torture for you,” Loki said. He’d been trying for levity, but Tony just took another drag from his beer and didn’t look at Loki.

“Hey,” Loki said, trying again. “I meant what I said before.”

Tony looked at him, frowning a little. The streetlight’s glow lit up his eyes in a way that Loki was finding fairly distracting, but he still managed to say, “When I invited you over. Don’t go back if you don’t want to. No one’ll be in the guest room, you could take Thor’s room even, or just stay in mine. Doesn’t matter. You shouldn’t have to stay out there if there’s no reason for it.”

Tony seemed to think it over. “I should stay on campus,” he said finally, sounding like the admission cost him something. “Obadiah said that I should use the time to...”

“So what?” Loki said. “It’s making you miserable, and being here would be awesome. Just stay. All summer, if you want.”

Tony swallowed, hard. Loki caught the motion of his Adam’s apple, thrown into relief by the shadow cutting across his face.

Then Tony got to his feet abruptly. “I’m going to get another beer,” he said, voice strangely wooden.

“Oh. Okay,” Loki said, but before he’d even finished the word Tony was gone.

“Huh,” Loki said, looking at the dark doorway he’d vanished through. That had been kind of weird. Not a Moment, just... well, _something_ had happened.

Whatever, why the hell was he thinking about this again? He couldn’t help noticing things about Tony now, how his hair stuck out in wet spikes after getting out of the shower, how his shirts fit across his shoulders, how he walked across a _room_ even, but he could help torturing himself over what it all _meant_. Like some stupid philosophy question, that always boiled down to: nothing.

Besides, even though Tony had only been there for three days, they had been the best three days of the summer so far. Best by far. If he was going to get more of that, if Tony stayed longer, then that was _awesome_. And not something he needed to complicate by dwelling excessively on unimportant stuff.

He decided he could use another beer too. He got up and turned to go inside, almost bumping right into Tony as he was coming back out.

“Hey, sorry,” Loki said, laughing in surprise. He looked down at Tony’s empty hands, and frowned. "Weren’t you going to get a beer? Did Baldr move them somewhere?”

But Tony didn’t answer. His face was set, the light outside catching his eyes almost directly and making them seem to glow. And then his hands were coming up to frame Loki’s face, fingers tucking under his jaw and settling lightly just over his cheekbones. And then Tony was pressing his mouth to Loki’s.

Loki made a small involuntary sound of surprise, his arms jerking and hands automatically clenching into fists as the bottom dropped out of his stomach.

“Shit,” Tony gasped, pulling back and almost falling away from Loki. “Oh shit, Loki, I think— you shouldn’t— oh shit, just forget it, can we please just forget it?”

Loki thought about answering for a split second, but instead stepped forward into the dark room and reached for Tony, pulling him back. This time Loki was ready, arms winding around Tony’s shoulders and his mouth opening eagerly for Tony’s.

He tasted like beer, like an edge of the spicy sauces that had come with their dinner, and like something that was just purely _Tony_.

Tony groaned this time, and Loki could _feel_ it. Tony gripped Loki’s hips, hands moving over the small of his back and then sliding up, like he couldn’t decide where to put them. It was Loki that ran his tongue over Tony’s lips, and it was Tony who opened them to let him in.

After a while, Loki pulled back just far enough to whisper. “You’re shaking.”

“I know,” Tony said bitterly. “I’m trying not to, just... I blame that stupid balcony, all that lighting just made you look like some sort of--”

“Hey,” Loki cut in. “It’s okay. It’s just me.”

“Yeah,” Tony laughed breathlessly. His fingers tightened in the fabric of Loki’s shirt. “Yeah.”

And he leaned back up to him, Loki feeling the laugh against his own lips.

~

Stark Tower is an eyesore.

You can say what you want about innovative architecture, about the interplay between light and glass and the surrounding buildings. But the fact is that it’s a nasty-looking thing that fucks up the city skyline, ruining postcards around the world and making the Jersey side of the Hudson look classy.

Not everyone feels the same way about it. But Loki never pretends he isn’t biased.

He stands on the side of the street opposite the building’s front entrance, craning his neck to look up at the giant thing. Some people glance at him, but probably it’s just because he’s standing in the rain and looking up like a turkey about to drown. He isn’t worried about being bothered. If he’s recognized, New Yorkers are the last people to say anything about it.

He feels sick now. Really, really sick, with his stomach rolling around and a cold sweat breaking out over the back of his neck. But he’s given himself three minutes to stand here like an idiot, and then he’ll go in.

“Right,” he says under his breath, smoothing his hands over the sides of his raincoat and running them through his damp hair. “Right.”

Loki closes his eyes, grits his teeth. Then he smooths his face out, muscle by muscle, into what he hopes is a blank mask. It’s a familiar act, one he’s used plenty to put something between his true thoughts and idiot politicians, bureaucrats, and citizens that make him want to scream. And it works well. Usually. He’s not sure how well it’s going to work now.

Well, his three minutes are up.

 _Think about Thor,_ Loki thinks as he starts walking. _Think about the arguments in favor of Tony endorsing him, think about the importance of his candidacy for the future of the country. Think about what this is_ for _, not about all the unimportant bullshit._

It’s his mantra as he crosses the street and moves to the door of the restaurant, pushing the door open without hesitation.

He gives the hostess his name, and she smiles widely at him and offers to show him to his table, and best of luck in November, Mr. Gard.

Loki smiles and nods, and he thinks he can hear the muscles in his cheeks creaking.

The restaurant isn’t small, and it feels like they walk through it for miles. Loki’s eyes dart around the tables, wanting to see Tony as soon as he can, so he’ll have more time to prepare. So Tony won’t see him first, so he won’t get the upper hand.

It doesn’t work. No matter how early he could have seen him, it wouldn’t have been enough time to prepare.

He sees Tony. He sees him, sitting at the table back against the corner, resting his chin in his hand and looking out the window, the other hand drumming a constant and rapid beat on the tabletop that almost matches up with the sound of the rain outside. He’s grown a goatee, and is wearing a suit that’s vaguely purple and should be repulsive. It is. It is repulsive, and Loki hates it.

And, Loki notes, he’s wearing rose-tinted sunglasses.

“Your table, Mr. Gard,” the hostess’ voice seems far away, and Loki makes himself look at her, turning his head away from Tony just before Tony looks over at him. “Someone will be by for your drink order shortly.”

“Thank you,” Loki says, and sits down.

He looks at Tony. Tony gazes back at him, still with the fucking sunglasses on.

“Hey,” Tony says.

It’s always strange to see someone in person that you often see on TV or in pictures. It’s something Loki’s reminded of afresh every time he meets one of these people (and in his life he’s met plenty of them), and it always takes a moment of adjustment. Because he hasn’t been insane about Tony, the last ten years, avoiding sight or sound of him entirely. He’s seen his picture on newspaper covers and magazines, clips on TV and some interviews.

And he didn’t just turn away from them, either, like automatically changing the channel or something stupid like that. When Tony went missing in Afghanistan three years ago, when everyone thought he was dead, Loki had read every headline and watched every news show about it. When he’d miraculously come back, when he’d changed the direction of Stark Enterprises and everything, Loki had watched all of that too. He hadn’t spoken to Tony, but... well, he hadn’t lost track of him, really.

Besides, it’s his job to stay abreast of international news, and Tony is an internationally significant figure. It’s just part of Loki’s job.

This is different from the odd TV/real life disparity too, in that Tony as he had been the last time Loki saw him keeps coming to mind as well. He’d been younger, obviously. No goatee. And the expression on his face then, that last time, was nothing like the composed, almost bland smile Tony wears now.

“Hi, Tony,” Loki says. And tries not to cringe, wishing he’d gone with ‘Mr. Stark’, or something else. He pushes on, because he might as well. “I hear you’ve resisted all of Sif’s best efforts to talk.”

“Well, word gets around with us billionaire types,” Tony says. “I knew better than to let her get her claws into me.”

“And Fandral too?”

Tony smiles, just a quick little twitch of one. “Him too.”

“Well,” Loki says. Might as well get right down to it. “You’ve worked with Thor before, so I know you’re familiar with his opinions on business and--”

“Yeah, the legislating thing. Tons of fun. Where were you for all of that?”

Loki’s expression doesn’t change. “He wasn’t even thinking of running then. He didn’t need a campaign manager.”

“No, I don’t mean like where were you, you should have been there. I mean where were you, what were you doing instead of campaign managing?”

“I was taking some time off,” Loki says evenly. He’d stayed in Germany for a few months, actually, painting and reading and gathering his strength. Just because Thor wasn’t thinking about running for President then didn’t mean Loki wasn’t already preparing for the possibility.

All of which he could tell Tony. None of which he actually does.

“Right,” Tony says.

“But, I know you worked well with Thor,” Loki says. “You’re familiar with his methods, his opinions.”

“I had a good idea of those before then,” Tony says.

Loki gives him a look of polite puzzlement that he’s very proud of. Because he really feels more like punching him.

“I read the newspapers, watch _The Daily Show_ obsessively, you know,” Tony clarifies. “Well, my assistant does. And then tells me about it. And she doesn’t have commercials, so who needs TV?”

“Okay,” Loki says. He can feel his temper, already short, starting to fray. “My point is, President Osborn’s campaign is aiming for Thor’s limited experience with business. Some of his attempts in that area didn’t have the best reception, and it’s being read as a weakness.”

Tony snorts. “Right, that would be the best they could come up with.”

Loki allows himself to hope that maybe this could work. Or, it could not be a massive disaster at least. “It could be worse,” he says, keeping a tight rein on his smile but letting it appear at least. “But it is a weakness, even though Thor’s overall position is strong.”

“He’s polling well in general,” Tony agrees. “According to my assistant,” he adds.

Loki shrugs. “It’s too early to tell, I think. Polls only have limited accuracy at this stage.”

“You know in France they’re illegal? So as to not influence opinion, that kind of thing. I tend to think that’s a better way to do it, though I also tend to resist agreeing with the French way of doing anything. Except baguettes.”

“Very patriotic,” Loki says, control of the smile slipping just a little. “But your point about the polls isn’t a bad one. I try not to take them too seriously.”

“Very wise,” Tony agrees. “A sure sign of your experience. What about baguettes?”

“Thor doesn’t have a stance on baguettes, as far as I know. But I can ask him if--”

He’s interrupted by the waiter, bringing a pitcher of water and asking if they’re ready to order. Loki blinks and looks down at the menu, which he realizes he hasn’t even glanced at.

Tony’s smiling at him. It’s a knowing, shit-eating grin that Loki’s familiar with. What the hell was Loki thinking, bantering about baguettes? _Focus_ , he tells himself sternly, and asks the waiter what he recommends. He doesn’t really listen, just nods and says that sounds good. Tony says he’ll take the same.

“Anyway,” Loki says. “The Republican approach to this still can pose a problem for Thor. Times are tough, people are worried.”

“Not enough to turn them against him,” Tony says airily. “Flawless military record, flawless political record, flawless personal life, flawless family. Hasn’t been a politician with all that going for him in... ever, probably.”

Loki grits his teeth. “We can’t predict how people will react. Campaigns have been tanked by worse than this.”

“If you say so,” Tony says. He raises his left hand and presses it against the center of his chest for a moment, like he has heartburn or something. But there’s no pain on his face, no discomfort at all, and the gesture has the fluid, thoughtless move of a habit. Which is interesting, since it’s not one that Loki remembers. “So what else are you doing these days?”

Loki blinks. “These days?”

“Yeah, what’re you up to? Hitting the clubs? Writing a novel? Are you still painting?”

Oh, that stings, but Loki tries not to let it show. “I don’t have much free time. The election’s not far off and I have a lot to take care of before then.”

“That’s too bad,” Tony says, and then he laughs. “You know, I tried to track down some of your old stuff, that you had for that show at the gallery by El Cirrito. I could only find one or two, but no one was willing to sell. And here I was, raised to think money could buy anything. Oh, the lies we’re told in childhood.”

He’s expecting an answer, Loki realizes belatedly. He tries to think of one, one that doesn’t involve him starting to scream.

“Can you take those off?” he says instead. It bursts out of him; he hadn’t meant to say it. Shit.

Tony’s eyebrows shoot up. “I’ll take anything off,” he says, leering. “But can you be more specific?”

“The sunglasses,” Loki growls out. “Take them off.”

Tony’s expression wavers, flickering to surprise and uncertainty for the briefest moment. Then the smirk is back. “It’s been bothering you, huh?”

“We’re inside,” Loki says, because what else can he say? “You don’t need them inside.”

“Thanks, Mom. You’re still wearing your jacket, I’d just like to point out.”

“Well, who knows, I might not be staying very long.”

Quiet falls over the table. The sound of silverware against plates and the murmur of conversation seems very loud. Loki’s been completely deaf to anything else since he got in, apparently.

He takes a deep breath, and closes his eyes for a moment. As a method of getting his temper under control, it doesn’t work at all.

“That’d be a shame,” Tony says finally. “You’d miss some great steak tartar.”

“Your donation would mean a lot to the campaign,” Loki says. “But your public endorsement of Thor would mean even more.” He should stop there, but he doesn’t. “That’s what Sif and Fandral wanted to tell you. That’s what they want from you. That’s what I want from you. That’s why I’m here.”

“Yeah?” Tony says. “And here I was, thinking you wanted me for my personali—”

“What’s the point of this, Tony?” He doesn’t shout, he never needs to shout, but right now he’s struggling to keep his voice down. “What exactly are you trying to accomplish here? Hmm? Sending Sif to get me, getting me down here? What do you want? I’ve been more than clear, I’ve told you what _I_ want, I’ve done all I’m going to do. You want me to beg? You want me to... to sit and make small talk?”

Tony’s expression is perfectly blank. The only sign of tension is in the hand that’s clenched around the sunglasses. His knuckles are white, and part of Loki wonders absently if Tony hasn’t already cracked the frames.

“You can forget it,” Loki hisses, as the rest of him is still furious. “I’ve got other things to do, all of them more important than this lunch, more important than _you_.”

The waiter appears, setting their steaks before them with a smile. Loki’s head snaps up to look at him, startled, and the expression on his face makes the man jump back a little. The waiter retreats quickly.

Neither Tony nor Loki touch their food.

“Well,” Tony says finally. “I can see why Sif is in charge of this. Your sales pitch could use some work.”

“You wouldn’t talk to her,” Loki says. “You asked for me, you got me. Here I am. So endorse Thor, or don’t. I don’t give a fuck.”

He pushes his chair back with a rattle, almost tripping over it as he turns and stalks away. He doesn’t look back. He doesn’t pause. He keeps walking, and has no idea if anyone even says anything to him on his way out. Given the look on his face, it’s not likely.

He makes it out of the building, crossing the street as quickly as he can to get out from under the shadow of Stark Tower. Three blocks later, he realizes that he’s stalked in the opposite direction from HQ.

“Fuck,” he growls, and goes down the first set of stairs to the subway that he sees. He stands on the dimly-lit platform, hands deep in the pocket of his jacket, and stares across the tracks at the opposite platform blindly. Some of the people standing over there shuffle out of his line of sight nervously, but he doesn’t really notice them.

Two trains rattle past before he collects himself and gets on the third. He doesn’t sit, just holds tight to an overhead handrail and lets the erratic shockwaves of the car’s motion pass through him, shoulders knocking against those of the people next to him.

He doesn’t think of anything specific. He just watches the shadowy motion of the tunnels passing beyond the car, and closes his eyes against it after a while. For once, the insane rocking and squealing stops of the train don’t bother him much.

~

Nothing changed, being with Tony. They still sat on the couch, ate too much cafeteria food and complained about it constantly, went to see movies, got into arguments about books and painters and why Tony was unable to do his own laundry.

But in amongst all those moments, the ones that had knit them so tightly together and had made them so essential to each other, there was _more._ As if that wasn’t enough, as if it wasn’t enough to have all of that already, there was more.

There was the first time Tony carefully took off Loki’s shirt, pressed against the couch and trying to be cool about it, trying to seem like this was nothing new to him when it was all new, it was all so new he thought his nerve endings would catch fire. There was the press of Tony’s hand against his stomach, firm and warm and safe. There was the two of them together, which was electric and maddening and better than anything, anything in the whole world. There was Tony under him, laughing and never shutting up and moaning Loki’s name like it was killing him, looking at him like Tony couldn’t believe he was real.

There was holding Tony against him, curled up behind him in bed with blankets thrown crookedly over the two of them, just feeling him breathe and twitch in his sleep.

There were all the first times, so many.

And it made Loki ache, and it made him happier than he had ever been in his life. Because nothing between them had changed.

But Loki’s life could never, never be the same again.

 

~

It’s late when Loki gets back from HQ, but he’s not that tired.

Well, he _is_ tired. He’s exhausted. But instead of going into the bedroom he sits at his kitchen table and rests his palms against its cool, brushed metal surface.

 _Right,_ he thinks. _Not so bad, right_?

With a hysterical half-giggle, his rests his head on the table too. It feels very cold against his forehead, and he lets the sensation set in for a while.

Then he gets up, and gets a beer from the fridge. He hasn’t bought groceries in a while, since he hasn’t eaten at home enough for it to be worth it. But there’s still the heels of a loaf of bread and some peanut butter in a cabinet, so he makes a peanut butter sandwich and brings it with him into the living room.

That’s where he keeps his art supplies, mostly tucked into shelves or in boxes under his coffee table. His large sketchpad is resting against the wall under the TV, where he probably left it months ago.

 _It has been too long,_ he thinks, picking it up. Bringing it with him to the couch he flips through his old stuff, trying to keep from dropping crumbs and blobs of peanut butter on anything.

It’s not a very old sketchpad, maybe only eight months or so. But he’d put a good dent in it, the summer before Thor had told him what Loki had already suspected: that he wanted to push for the White House roughly twelve years before anyone else would have thought it wise. But the summer before that conversation Loki had been in between jobs, and had sketched a little every day.

There were scenes sketched from Central Park; from inside the Met (as much of the visitors as the artwork); from the Bronx Zoo (he frowns, still not satisfied with how he’d expressed the fluid motion of the big cats); from the Botanical Gardens; from all over the City. There were some nudes from the life drawing sessions he’d sat in on for a few weeks, mostly black and white charcoal. There was a caricature self-portrait he’s forgotten ever doing, tucked into the corner of a page over a still life of bananas and a china teacup he’d found in an antique store. Some rough portraits of Thor, the best one a rendering of his smile.

And there’s plenty of other small things, hands and feet and knees (he can never figure out knees and elbows, it’s obnoxious). Some faces of people he doesn’t know, trying to get the dimensions right without using a photo reference, just sneaking quick looks at them on the subway before they vanish. He must’ve been re-reading _the Wizard of Oz_ at some point that summer, because there are some half-formed sketches of what’s probably the Scarecrow and the Tin Man, and Glinda looking like Sarah Bernhardt in a Mucha print. Or that had probably been the intention, anyway.

He remembers every person who bought a piece from him, at the El Cirrito gallery show. Of course he does. He had been practically dizzy with joy that whole night of the opening, and had almost cried the first time someone who wasn’t a blood relative had bought something he’d done. It had been _Early Morning Windowsill_ , a portrait of a girl caught in the motion of hopping either up on to or down from a windowseat, all her features blurred by the yellow light pouring in through the window behind her.  

Somewhere out there there is someone who wouldn’t part with his work, no matter the price. And that information is something good to have come from today, at least.

He closes the sketchbook, and finishes his peanut butter sandwich. Peanut butter and beer make for a terrible combination, but he soldiers through it. He had barely had anything to eat for dinner, since he’d been in and out of meetings for the whole afternoon. And when he hadn’t had anything scheduled he’d made up tasks, keeping himself busy until it was too late for him to reasonably stay there, and he couldn’t stomach sleeping in the break room tonight.

He’d only really realized he was starving when he got to the lobby of his building. He really should get some groceries, if only just ramen or something.

His iPhone goes off in his pocket. Pulling it out, he groans when he sees Sif’s name. It wouldn’t be terrible if he ignored it, would it? He could say he was sleeping. That’s completely believable, since Loki hasn’t done anything apart from work and sleep for months.

But he’d also take the call even if it was waking him up. And better to bite the bullet now, just let Sif chew him out and deal with the repercussions in the morning.

“Hi, Sif,” He says.

“Hey, Loki,” She says, sounding very alert for one in the morning. “Just wanted to say, thanks so much for today. I know it can’t have been easy. But thanks.”

“You’re welcome,” Loki says. Then, “Wait, what?”

“Stark called me a little while ago, basically agreeing that whatever we need or want him to say, he’ll say. He was pretty nice about it too, saying he’d talk to some of his fatcat business buddies —his words, not mine, I’m not even kidding— and see about drumming up some support there. So thank you for today. I really appreciate it.”

Loki’s mouth has gone dry. He takes a sip of beer. “Right. Sure. No problem.” He says robotically.

“Well, it’s late, I just wanted to update you in case Stark didn’t say all that at lunch; he said he’d been thinking it over since you talked but hadn’t given you a definite answer. Get some sleep, alright?”

“Sure,” Loki says. “Night, Sif.”

“Goodnight.”

Loki lets the phone fall onto the couch next to him.

Well.

Not sure what to think about this, he goes to bed. Any other options might end in crying or lighting things on fire, so he’d rather just go to sleep.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "Loki hates the 24-hour news cycle for a lot of reasons. Tony’s face constantly being featured is pretty near to the top of the list."

  
  


It probably would have been easier to forget about Tony if he wasn’t freaking _everywhere_ all the time.

It really makes Loki nuts, that he can never get away from the guy’s face, or news reports about him, or stupid talk shows that insist on interviewing him for the flimsiest of reasons.

Loki hates the 24-hour news cycle for a lot of reasons. Tony’s face constantly being featured is pretty near to the top of the list.

Fenrir theorizes that this is why Loki’s resolve to never talk to Tony has been so strong. He just doesn’t think it’s normal to feel so angry about your ex almost a decade after breaking up with them.

“First love, I get that,” Fenrir has said to Loki (generally when they’re out at a bar, and after at least four drinks). “Chihiro was my high school _and_ college sweetheart, and when we fell apart we fell apart _hard._ You remember man, I was a mess. But now, it’s all cool. We talk sometimes, just to see what’s going on with one another. I’ve met her kids. That’s, like, normal.”

Loki doesn’t tend to enjoy these little brainstorming sessions that Fenrir likes to have, in his attempts to Solve Loki’s Personal Life. But Fenrir doesn’t usually need Loki’s input to keep going.

“But we had time to be apart from each other. I had time to forget her a little, so the memory of the shit we did to each other got... fuzzier. I didn’t forget her, I just had time to live away from her. You’ve never been able to get away from him, so you’ve never had fuzzy time. That’s why you’ve never ever spoken to him, and never wanted to.”

What Loki doesn’t tell Fenrir, and has never told Fenrir, and will probably never tell _anyone_ , is that that isn’t true. He has wanted to talk to Tony.

And once, he came very close to it.

Once, Tony went to make an arms deal in Afghanistan, and trucks blew up and young Americans died and Tony Stark’s body wasn’t found in the wreckage.

Part of it had something to do with Thor too, Loki thinks. At that point Thor had been home for two years and had been out of the hospital and working on physical therapy at home for a year and a half. But to Loki, the two events were too close. Way, way too close.

But he can admit that he hadn’t thought about Thor. Not when he first heard the news. Not when Tony was presumed dead.

He hadn’t been able to think. About anything. Not for a while.

And then, miraculously, Tony was back, and he was alive.

That was when he had almost broken. Loki had stood in his kitchen, staring at the TV. At Tony limping off that plane, arm in a sling and bruised and cut around the face but still _smiling,_ the asshole. And Loki, without really being aware of what he was doing, had reached in his pocket for his cell phone.

He never pulled it out, though. He’d stood in the kitchen, the pot of ramen behind him on the oven slowly boiling to mush, and stared at the screen. At Tony.

And he was happy. And relieved.

Of course he should be, no way he should’ve been _upset_ that Tony was alive, Loki wasn’t some kind of monster.

But it wasn’t that simple.

And it hadn’t taken long for Loki to feel angry at himself. And angry at Tony too, as the coverage of his return and subsequent change of heart regarding Stark Industries had made him headline news for another six months after that.

Because seeing his face doesn’t remind Loki of all the reasons he can’t stand to talk to Tony. It reminds him of himself, standing barefoot in his kitchen and ruining his dinner, for a wild moment believing that it would be alright, it would be smart, it would be _good_ to call Tony and talk to him.

And he hates remembering that he ever had such a moment.

 

~

 

“Want me to get that?” Loki asked, looking down from Rainbow Road to where Tony was using his lap as a pillow.

“No,” Tony groaned, shifting so he could press his nose against Loki’s hipbone. “You aren’t allowed to move.”

“It’s probably the pizza,” Loki said.

“Don’t want it.”

“ _You_ were the one who ordered it,” Loki checked his wristwatch. “only half an hour ago, they’re actually early.”

“You,” Tony growled. “Aren’t allowed to move.”

“I’m hungry. If I keep playing Mario Kart without food I’ll start to hallucinate,” Loki said. And slid out from under Tony as quickly as he could. Tony’s head fell back on the couch, and he rolled over to glare at Loki.

“Food first, then napping, or however you want to cope with your post-group meeting funk,” Loki said as he walked to the door. “Though I don’t think the way to demonstrate how much more advanced you are than those ‘mouth-breathing cnidaria’ is to lie on your couch and— Oh. Hi.”

Unless the dress code at Domino’s had been intensified lately, It wasn’t the pizza guy.

Standing on the other side of Tony’s door was a powerfully built older man, balding and with a sharply trimmed beard, dressed in an immaculately tailored grey three-piece suit. Something about him seemed familiar, but Loki couldn’t quite place it.

“Hello,” the stranger said pleasantly, though his eyebrows shot up in surprise. Loki felt suddenly self-conscious in his bare feet and sweatpants. “Is Tony here?”

Something fell off the couch with a thud, and Loki heard Tony hurrying over. “Yes,” Loki said. “Umm, who should I--”

“Obie!” Tony stepped in front of Loki and pulled the man into a hug with much back-slapping. “Hey!”

 _Oh_. That’s why the man looked familiar: Obadiah Stane, CEO of Stark Enterprises. He’d managed to duck most of the tabloid attention focused on Tony; there was some magnetism to the scion of the Stark genius that Obadiah lacked. Not lacked, maybe, so much as... deflected. Standing in front of him, Loki wondered that anyone could be distracted from his presence by a teenager like Tony. There was something about the man that made it hard not to stare.

Loki was uncomfortably reminded of a cobra hypnotizing its prey, and looked away from the pair of them quickly.

“Tony, my boy,” Obadiah let him go, with one more hearty back-slap. “You going to let me in to see your pad?”

“Oh,” Tony said, glancing at Loki and... _blushing_? “Yeah, of course. Obie, this is my friend, Loki.”

Oh. Okay.

“Loki Gard, isn’t it?” Obie offered a large hand to Loki. “Of course it is. You look just like your dad.”

Well, there was one Loki hadn’t heard before. Baldr and Thor were Odin’s little clones, everyone said so. “Thank you, sir. You know my father?”

“By reputation only,” Obadiah said, his handshake firm and strong. “Unfortunately.”

“Come on, come in,” Tony said, hurrying before Loki and Obadiah. He glanced around the living room quickly, like he was checking to make sure there was no incriminating evidence lying around. Evidence of what, Loki didn’t know. But he could guess.

“So, Obie, What’s up?” Tony asked. He was smiling widely, but it looked almost painful. It wasn’t a smile that was familiar to Loki.

Well, maybe there were more things unfamiliar to him about Tony than he’d thought, judging by how this little visit was going.

“I was in LA for a meeting, thought I’d stop by,” Obadiah said easily. He put his hands in his pockets and smiled easily at Tony. “You boys aren’t busy, are you?”

“Not at all,” Tony said. “Just hanging out, playing some video games. You know.”

“Wow, and on a Saturday night too,” Obadiah laughed. “What’s happening to you out here? Must be the California air, hmm?”

“Must be,” Tony said, and frowned when Obadiah glanced over at Loki. Loki stared at the paused screen of the video game, not wanting to look at either of them.

“So how did you two meet?” Obadiah asked, walking over to the kitchen table and pulling out a chair.

“Class,” Tony said, glancing at Loki before sitting down across from Obadiah.

“Little young for an MBA, aren’t you, son?” Obadiah asked Loki.

Loki opened his mouth to answer, but Tony cut across him with “Not one of my MBA classes. Russian. You know.”

“That’s right,” Obadiah said, stilling looking at Loki. “So you’re an undergrad. What’s your major? Going to follow the old man into law?”

“Come on, you don’t have to give him the third degree,” Tony laughed, again before Loki could answer. “He’s not—”

“History and Art,” Loki said, getting to his feet. His voice and face were both composed, but Tony suddenly looked stricken. “I’m sorry, I just remembered, I’ve got some work I have to do for a group meeting tomorrow. I should leave you two alone, so you can catch up.”

“That’s not—” Tony started to say.

“I wouldn’t want to hold up your studies,” Obadiah interrupted with a smile. “But it was nice to meet you, son.”

“You too, Mr. Stane,” Loki said. He didn’t look at Tony. “See you in _class_ , Tony.”

He didn’t cry or anything, rattling down the stairway of Tony’s apartment and out into the lobby. He just got mad.

Not that he even should be mad. What was wrong with him, freaking out like this? Wasn’t being with Tony enough? Did he really need Tony to shout it from the skies? They weren’t that affectionate in public, but Loki had always thought it was because he knew _he_ hated other couples’ sloppy PDA, and had just assumed that Tony felt the same way.

But even if he thought differently, did it matter? Should it matter?

 _It does,_ he thought bleakly, slamming the door to his own dorm room and standing in the middle of the floor, fists clenched and chest heaving. _It does, it does._

He pulled out his phone and called Fenrir Argent, a guy he’d gotten into a debate with over Aaron Burr during class a few weeks ago, who had then badgered Loki into hanging out more so they could keep fighting about historical figures.

“Hey, Fenrir,” Loki said. “Yeah, I was in the middle of homework until I realized, it’s _Saturday_. You have any plans for tonight? Yeah, that sounds great. Meet you in ten?”

When he staggered back to the dorm later that night (or a lot earlier the next morning, depending on how you saw it), Tony was sitting in the hallway in front of his door, sound asleep.

He had a Domino’s pizza box in his lap.

Loki looked down at him.

Leaning over (slowly and carefully), he lifted the lid. Tony had eaten all but two pieces. Loki snorted and let the lid fall shut. He should just go in and let Tony sleep out here all night. Serve him right, too.

“Wake up,” he said instead, prodding at Tony’s side with the toe of his shoe. “You ate all the pizza, you _asshole_.”

Tony’s head jerked up, coming to full alertness after only a few blinks. He jumped to his feet. “Loki,” he said. “Thank _God,_ I was pounding on your door for about an hour, but someone called the RA and she chewed me out, and then someone said they’d saw you leave from the common room, so I thought... are... are you drunk?”

“What do you care?” Loki said, pushing past him and unlocking his door. Alright, it wasn’t his best line ever. He was _drunk_ , what did Tony expect?

“I care,” Tony said. “Come on, of course I care. Listen, about tonight, I just wanted to—”

“Yeah,” Loki said, pulling off his jacket and throwing it across the room. “Yeah, how is ‘Obie’? You guys have a nice chat? Nice visit? Was it nice?”

“He should’ve told me he was stopping by,” Tony said. “He was trying to surprise me, I bet, he does shit like this all the time, I should’ve expected it.”

“Yeah, that was... _super_ inconsiderate of him,” Loki walked over to his mini fridge and pulled out a bottle of water. He twisted the cap off roughly and took a long sip. “What was he thinking?”

“He doesn’t know about us,” Tony said, putting down the pizza box.

“ _Really?_ Wow, that’s a shock. I was sure, from the way you guys were acting, that he was completely informed. Well, silly me. Don’t I feel... sheepish.”

“‘Sheepish,’ man, are you serious?” Tony cracked a smile.

“ _Don’t laugh at me.”_

Tony’s smile froze. Loki got to his feet slowly, clenching the bottle in his fist so tightly he could hear the plastic pop.

Tony reached out for him, and Loki slapped the hand away instantly. They stood, looking at each other.

“Hey,” Tony said cautiously. “I’m sorry. I don’t know what to tell you, I just... panicked.”

“Yeah, I got that.”

“Loki...” Tony sighed. “Obadiah’s not... it’s not because you’re a guy. Come on, people on the _street_ can rattle off a list of all my exes.”

Loki took another sip of water, suddenly very, very tired. He turned away from Tony and slumped into his desk chair.

“It’s just that I can’t...” Tony was obviously struggling. “I don’t know how...” Tony looked at him pleadingly. “Can I just grab you in a manly passionate way and kiss you until you forget you’re mad at me? Would that work?”

Loki scowled. “I dare you to try,” he said.

Tony almost laughed, but turned it into a cough. Loki could tell, but he could also feel himself almost smiling in response. _Damn_ Tony.

“Okay, okay,” Tony said. “Can you just believe that the reason I haven’t told Obie has nothing to do with you?”

Loki looked at him. Then he put the bottle down and put his face in his hands.

“It’s stupid, you can tell me it’s stupid, I _know_ it’s stupid,” Tony babbled on, stepping carefully closer. “But you know me, man, you really think I’m any good with this kind of stuff? And Obie’s kind of a... complicated guy. So it’s just a conversation I’ve put off and put off, which I freely admit is because I am a total coward,” He paused, letting out a laugh that sounded forced. “Though maybe you should be thanking me. If Obie knew, he’d be terrifying about it. Background checks, bugging my apartment, the whole thing. But I can’t...” he stopped and let out a frustrated snort. Loki raised his head.

Carefully, after a moment, Tony put out a hand. When Loki made no move to smack it again, he pressed his palm against Loki’s cheek.

Loki sighed. “Alright. Come here, you jackass.”

He pulled Tony over, and Tony straddled him in the desk chair, knees pressed against Loki’s hips and thighs warm alongside Loki’s.

“I forgive you,” Loki said, just before Tony kissed him. “But only because you brought me pizza.”

 

~

 

There’s a bag sitting outside his apartment.

Loki blinks at it, waiting for it to go away. It’s six in the morning and the coffee hasn’t kicked in yet: hallucinations aren’t unreasonable. But it stubbornly remains there, an outrageously sparkly paper gift bag, stuffed with black tissue paper.

His first thought is that it might explode. If he has to be assassinated, he hopes to god no one finds out it was done by something studded with rhinestones.

But nothing happens. He nudges it with a toe. Still nothing happens.

So, not sure what else to do, he bends and picks it up.

Inside the tissue paper is an envelope and something soft and green. He pulls it out, and it’s an emerald green scarf. Cashmere too, judging by the feel of it. Loki holds it out at arm’s length, like it still might explode. He can only think of one person stupid enough to give this as a gift in the middle of July.

Stuffing the scarf back in the bag, he opens the envelope.

The cover of the card inside is a tasteful sketch of a bird in flight, which means someone other than Tony picked it out. The inside is blank except for this message in a familiar scribble: _Sorry about yesterday. Let me try again. Just business. -T._ And a phone number.

Loki closes the card, and stands in the doorway of his apartment for a long moment.

Then he stuffs the card back in his briefcase, drops the bag in the foyer of his apartment (because what the hell would he do with a cashmere scarf in _July_ ), locks up behind him, and hurries down the stairs.

He can’t suppress the thought of Tony dropping the bag off himself. He hasn’t considered that Tony might know where he lives before, and the idea is worrying.

Still, he calls the number. It only takes him until after lunch to decide to do it, but he does it in the end. He doesn’t dare hope that it’s not Tony’s cell number, but is pleasantly surprised when the phone’s answered not by Tony, but by a very polite and businesslike assistant.

As Miss Potts consults with Tony’s schedule and makes an appointment for Tony to come to HQ later that day, Loki thinks of the note. _Just business_.

He doesn’t believe it for a second. Even though he wishes he could.

“So,” Fenrir prompts, knocking on the doorframe of Loki’s office, even though the door’s standing open. “It went okay yesterday?”

Loki waves him in. “Shut that behind you.”

“That well, huh?” Fenrir says, but closes the door.

Loki summarizes the meeting, leaving out most of the expletives, and then tells him about the call with Sif.

“So he didn’t say anything to you at lunch about agreeing to help?”

“I left the table before he could, I guess,” Loki says. “But no, after that, well...”

“Yeah, I would’ve just assumed that you’d screwed our chances with him completely.”

Loki glares at him. Fenrir just shrugs. “Hey, like you said, he asked for you. He knew what he was getting into.”

“I just wish I could figure out what he wants,” Loki says.

“Maybe he’s just a proud and true American, and wants the best for his country,” Fenrir says, without much conviction.

Loki snorts. “Yeah, maybe. Well, he’s coming over here in about... two hours. So we can find out then.”

“That soon? But you’re not...” Fenrir stops.

“Worried?” Loki supplies.

“Staring into space and twitching is what I was thinking, but yeah, worried works too.”

“Right,” Loki says dryly. “Well. Given how things went yesterday, I doubt it could get any worse. And...” he thinks it over, because even so, he should still be a total fucking mess. But part of it is, he knows— knew— Tony pretty well. “I’m not saying I trust him any further than I could throw him, but whatever his reasons are, he’s playing nice today. So far.”

“So that’s a good sign, right? That he might be willing to actually cooperate? This could be great for the campaign.”

Loki snorts. “I know better than to pin my hopes to Tony. But we’ll see what he has to say. And in the meantime, we have a hell of a lot more to do than sit around talking about this. Thor’s post-primary speeches are ready to get kicked into the next level. I need to meet with the speechwriting team and see where they are for Thor’s first big statement.”

“A speech at West Point about why he’s now against the war in Iraq? Yeah, that’ll be a great way to kick things off.”

“If it was easy, it wouldn’t be any fun,” Loki says. “Get out of here and go crunch some numbers or whatever it is you do.”

“I’m thinking Darcy might have the right idea about that hostile takeover,” Fenrir says, but flees before Loki can pick something off his desk to throw at him.

Loki calls Thor instead. Of course, he’s out walking in Central Park instead of sitting at his desk in HQ. Loki’s given up trying to get him to do otherwise.

“It’s not too late to change it up,” Loki says. “We could start with your stance on economic reform, or marriage equality. Or immigration, or the Ledbetter Act. It’s your first big move after all the obvious fluff in the primaries— we can take it anywhere, we don’t have to lead with the war.”

“We do,” Thor says firmly, hardly breathing heavily even though Loki’s pretty sure he’s been out there for over an hour. “I was a soldier before any of this even started. It’s still who I am, even now. People need to know that about me, and they need to be reminded that wars are still being fought. It’s important.”

“Alright, alright,” Loki sighs. “But what about delivering it somewhere other than West Point? DC, maybe, or Boston.”

“I was always comfortable at West Point,” Thor says. “Why not start there? I mean it, that place made me who I am today. I probably wouldn’t even be running if I hadn’t gone there, it just feels right to pay my respects at the start of my real campaign.”

“Okay,” Loki says, “And that’ll be a great way to start off your speech. But eventually you’re going to have to talk about why you’re against military action in Iraq and Afghanistan _now_ , and that’s more the part that’s keeping me up at night.”

Thor laughs. “Loki, you worry too much. I talked to General Fury this morning, he says that the whole campus is talking about it. They’re excited for me to be there.”

“Yeah, because it’ll make it easier for them to _shoot you_ ,” Loki says.

“Come on. It’ll be fine. I’ve seen some of the early drafts for the speech, and it shouldn’t anger anyone unreasonably.” He cuts Loki off before he can argue. “Relax, Loki. Let me handle the military. It’s a part of the whole Commander-in-Chief deal that I’m sure I can do well.”

“Okay,” Loki says. “But if you change your mind, let me know. We can still switch things around.” He makes a mental note to tell Don, the Assistant Campaign Manager, and Molly, the chief strategist, to keep some backup strategies in mind. They were going to go with Thor for half of the speech tour, possibly all of it if Loki decided not to hit the road with Thor (that decision was a few weeks off, and therefore an eternity away).

“I won’t,” Thor says. “But thanks. So,” he says, sounding casual in a completely unconvincing way. “Everything went okay yesterday?”

“Tony’s going to cooperate,” Loki says. “And it was okay. Well, you know.”

“Good,” Thor says. “I’ll be back at HQ sometime tonight if you want someone to worry about West Point at.”

“Fine, fine,” Loki says, though he’s betting Thor’s more interested in finding out more about Tony than in actually listening to Loki’s worries about the speech. Thor knows to leave it alone for now, though. Which is just in his best interest, since he can’t make those big blue puppy dog eyes at Loki over the phone.

Thor hangs up to go back to his walk, and Loki sets the phone down. He’s about to turn his attention to the tricky— and at the moment, not as top secret as he’d like it to be— emails dealing with Thor’s potential running mates when his cell phone goes off in his pocket. Not too many people would call him on that instead of his office phone, so he’s half expecting it when the caller ID reads “Dad.” Even though Odin’s in Norway. And should have no reason to call his youngest son.

“Loki,” Odin says when Loki picks up. “How is everything?” The distance makes his voice sound watery, and there’s some sort of mechanical hum in the background, but Loki can still hear him.

“Good,” Loki says. “Working, you know. Busy.”

“How’s your brother holding up?”

“You know him,” Loki sighs. “But he seems to be having fun. I can’t talk him out of launching his platform with his Iraq opinions in a few weeks.”

“He’s not one to run away from a problem,” Odin says approvingly. Loki’s mouth twists, but he doesn’t say anything. “How’s his leg?”

“The same, I think. It’s been pretty wet here, so I’m sure it hurts,” Loki shakes his head. “He hates my asking about it, so I’ve given up trying to get him to tell me how it feels. He’s still got the cane, but he should have some sort of brace set up, I think.”

“When he’s President you can tell him the security of the nation rests on it,” Odin says, with his usual absolute certainty, like Thor’s already the President elect, mission over. Sometimes it’s comforting when he talks like that, and sometimes it just makes Loki nervous. He feels like he’s missing something.

“I’ll do that,” Loki says. “How’s Norway? Are you still on the boat?”

“On and off,” Odin says. “We’re on land today, going to head up the Flåm Railway, see Kjosfossen. Your mother wants to see if the guide’ll let us stay up there to watch the sun rise.”

“How romantic,” Loki grins.

“Hmm,” Odin says, sounding doubtful. “She thinks so, though we’ll freeze to death. So,” his voice takes on that focused edge, his you-may-approach-the-stand voice, and Loki relaxes. Now they’re getting to the real point, he can already tell. “Has that Barton man from the Post contacted you?”

“Barton?” Loki thinks back, not expecting this. “I haven’t talked to him in... months, I think. He didn’t take it well when I fed him that tip about those Skrull Party nutjobs.”

“I remember. Said you’d manipulated him; used him.”

Loki shrugs, even though Odin can’t see the gesture. “For someone who’s always going on about the necessary emotional distance for a ‘true’ journalist, he’s very sensitive. But yeah, we’re not really speaking. If he contacted the campaign, I haven’t heard about it. Why?”

“He’s been poking around,” Odin says, voice sliding away from the razor-sharp focus into a more vague, almost bored tone. “Tried to call my office a few times. Probably looking for something to upset you. And Thor,” he adds. “I wouldn’t talk to him, if I were you.”

“I don’t think he’ll try,” Loki says slowly. “He hates me, Dad, he won’t use me as a source again. Do you... Are you sure he’s up to something?” He wants to ask ‘what’s this really all about?’ but even though it’s been decades since he practiced, Odin’s too much the consummate lawyer: always too slippery for a straight-ahead answer to a straight-ahead question. Loki’s better than some at getting through the legalese to a real answer, but only, he suspects, when he’s after answers that Odin wants him to have.

“No,” Odin says. “I’m not sure. Just keep your eyes open. I have to go, the train leaves in a few minutes. My love to your brother.”

“Bye, Dad,” Loki says. Odin hangs up, and Loki looks at the phone for a bit, completely baffled.

He almost wants to call Barton, to see what’s really going on. It is a little tragic, he thinks as he slides his phone back into his pocket, that he’s more sure of getting a real answer from an obsessive reporter who hates him than his own father.

Well, that’s Odin. Loki’s given up trying to understand him, or resenting it when he can’t.

Instead, he turns to his email. They’ve already got a profile worked up for what Thor needs in a VP. Ideally, they could tap someone with the business know-how that Thor lacks, but if Loki’s life was that easy then he wouldn’t have another meeting scheduled with Tony in two hours.

No, none of the names on his shortlist have the business resume to redeem Thor’s lack of one. But they are all on there for excellent reasons, reasons that seem to outweigh business qualifications

Or they had, last month. This month, Loki thinks those reasons are looking a little flimsy.

The immediate instinct had been to go with someone older, to balance out Thor’s youth. That’s what most of the party is clamoring for. They’d started getting calls from former candidate Stephen Colbert’s people as soon as Thor’d announced his nomination, and generous hints had been dropped by some DNC heavyweights that that would be the best way to go.

Colbert wouldn’t be a bad choice, given that he had almost taken the Presidency himself (and, some said, should have succeeded given that he’d won the popular vote and only been beaten by Osborn in the electoral college), and he definitely was still a favorite even if he’d lately switched from politics to pop music, of all things.

But he’s also more than a little crazy. And Loki is pretty sure that being at last only one man away from the Presidency would be too tempting for someone as outspoken as Colbert is about his love of firearms.

Besides, Thor doesn’t want to go in that direction. He’s already one of the youngest candidates to seek the presidency _ever_ , might as well make no apologies for it. The theory is, they might lose some people who’re too offended by Thor’s (and his theoretical running mate’s) lack of grey hair to listen to what he’s saying. But if more people are excited by the sheer nerve (Fox News’ words, not Loki’s, but he’s gleefully appropriated them) of the Gard campaign, then that’s a fair trade. Of course, when asked, Loki will just say that the time is right for young, passionate, energetic leaders.

But he knows experience is still key.

Hence, the possible VPs. All young, but while Thor was just out of his first term on the Senate, these are the wunderkind of the political world.

Loki clicks from e-mail to e-mail, looking at press clippings, summaries of speeches, pictures, and spreadsheets. It’s narrowed down to three, now: a Senate veteran, the Mayor of New York, and the most recent Ambassador to India. They have a little bit of time to decide: the official announcement will have to be made sometime in August. No one would be on this list if they didn’t want the job, which helps, though the endless dance of ‘would you’ and ‘maybe’ had been a nightmare. Loki’s not often accused of having a ton of patience. Especially not with politicians.

And yet, here he is. And if Thor’s completely transparent hints are anything to go by, Loki’s likely to be made Chief of Staff. Which he’s not even sure how he feels about. And he’s not letting himself think about it until November at least.

Well, anyway, these are the three. Loki sits back in his chair and tries to rub some of the tiredness out of his eyes. He’s not going to be able to make a decision, he knows it. But he looks over the stats, memorizes turns of phrase and brilliant smiles, because hopefully someday soon, the right choice will come to him. He’d say ‘when I’m not so busy,’ but he’s realized he will never, never not be busy.

It’s a comforting thought, in a way.

Sort of.

He gets to his feet and stretches. Then he adjusts his vest and turns to look out the window, resting his hip against the sill. New York below him looks like New York in the summer always does: better from a distance. Still, he loves to look at it. And even in July, there’re few other places he’d rather be.

He thinks about living in DC again, but just idly, not letting himself get too close to the thought just yet.

“Yes, everything the light touches will someday be yours,” says a voice from behind him, though he hadn’t heard anyone come over. Loki knows without having to turn around that it’s Tony. He also knows that what he said to Fenrir earlier was total bullshit. He closes his eyes and takes a deep breath before he turns, feeling ten things at once and all of them much too strongly for this early in the afternoon.

“You’re early,” he says, annoyed.

“What’s that dark place over the horizon, you ask?” Tony says, ignoring Loki and stepping into the office. He’s in black slacks and a blue shirt that looks too thick for the weather, though he’s rolled the sleeves up past his elbows. No tie, and no rose-colored sunglasses. “That’s Times Square, Simba, it’s beyond our borders. You must never go there. I’m not early, I’m almost ten minutes late.”

He nods at the clock on the wall, and Loki realizes it’s true. Huh. Must’ve lost track of time, thinking about running mates and shady journalists committed to vengeance.

“Working hard?” Tony asks, like he can read Loki’s mind.

Loki narrows his eyes at him, and gestures for Tony to sit. Tony does, and without comment.

Which lasts for all of five seconds.

“So, did you like my present?” Tony asks, leaning back in the chair with an air of total comfort (which Loki knows has to be bullshit; those chairs are notoriously terrible).

“It’s July, Tony,” Loki sighs, deciding after a moment to sit as well. Standing might give him something of a psychological advantage, but he feels the need to have the comfort of his desk in front of him. “What the hell am I going to do with a scarf in July?”

“They always say it’s the thought that counts,” Tony says.

“They’re lying,” Loki says.

He looks at Tony. He feels _wrong_ here, in this office. Like the Ghost of Christmas Past, waltzing into Loki’s present and messing it up. Because he does mess it up. Just by _being_ here. Loki can see people slowing down as they walk past his open office door, looking in and whispering. Darcy stops altogether, pulls out her phone, and takes a picture before waving at Loki and wandering off. Worst. Intern.

Tony doesn’t appear to notice the attention, but then, he never did. Loki used to be able to tell, when he honestly didn’t mind it and when it took almost all Tony had just to act like he was above caring. He’s not sure which Tony’s doing now, and Loki reminds himself that a lot of time has gone by. He doesn’t know this man anymore. Not really.

There’s a kind of relief to the realization, rising cautiously over the nauseating turbulence of ten years and one shitty dinner. Maybe that’s the way to go about this. Just see him as someone else. A stranger, just one whose face he knows well.

That’s not unique to him; most of the world has the same experience of Tony Stark.

“Thanks for meeting with me,” Tony says, when it becomes clear that Loki’s not going to say anything. “I didn’t think you would, honestly, hence the scarf. I wanted to get you a car or something that’d _really_ get your attention, but Pepper— my assistant and my savior, you spoke on the phone— thought that that could be a pretty bad idea. And you were never too into cars anyway, except for...” he trails off, clearly realizing this may not be a winning strategy given how their last encounter went.

“Just business, you said,” Loki says calmly, maintaining eye contact.

“Right, right,” Tony does that thing again that he did at the restaurant, raising a hand and pressing his fist against his sternum. After a moment he blinks and gives a little cough, like something’s stuck in his throat. “I’m sorry about yesterday. I am. But everything you said about Thor, everything I said about Thor, I meant it. Even if I didn’t know him, I’d be impressed just that he has the balls to run and the guts to shut everyone up who said he’d be laughed out of the first primary debate. But since I _do_ know him, I’m convinced that he’s the best chance we have to start making the country just a little less of a shithole. Because not only is Thor serious and smart and has that whole break-you-in-half scary soldier vibe, he’s also got the biggest heart.

“Not,” Tony adds, his smile shifting minutely into something warmer, softer, “that any of this is news to you.” Then the moment’s gone, and he’s back in his boardroom-delivery mode. “But I think the rest of the country should know it too. And I want to make that happen. I’m clearly not the poster-child for humility here, but correct me if I’m wrong when I say that Thor needs my help.”

Loki doesn’t.

“So,” Tony says, left fist almost coming up to his chest again but changing direction halfway there, extending out instead to rest on the edge of Loki’s desk. “I want to help him. I want to help you. And I think that’s what’s— I want us to be able to work together. I think it’s important that we do that. So I’m following your lead, here. Totally, completely. I want to help.”

Speech finished, he hesitates for a moment, leaning forward, his fist just barely touching Loki’s desk. Then Tony sits back, and folds his hands in his lap.

Loki stares at him. He isn’t sure how to respond to that, honestly. He isn’t even sure how he _feels_ about it, just that his heart is thumping in his ears and goosebumps have broken out over his forearms. _Absolutely not_ is his first thought, the one that spirals around and around in his guts, _never again get away from me not you get away_ , the idea of it, of what Tony’s asking...

“You’re asking me to trust you,” Loki says, and his voice comes out rough and throaty.

“No,” Tony says, looking at Loki with absolute focus but not... but not with any other intent, that Loki can make out. “I’m asking you to let me trust _you._ Trust you to tell me what you need me to do, and how to do it. Trust you to use me the way you have to, to win.”

“That doesn’t make a lot of sense,” Loki says slowly.

“Well, Pepper did write most of that speech, I could’ve forgotten an important phrase or two,” Tony says, but Loki’s not sure he buys it.

He’s not sure he buys any of it. But, he realizes, he wants to.

And more importantly, he has to.

“Okay,” he says.

“Fantastic,” Tony says, smiling broadly. Then, incredibly, he _does_ switch right into a serious professional tone (or as much of one as Tony ever has) “Do you want to talk about the next move now, or do you have take-over-the-world stuff to do?”

“I always have stuff to do,” Loki says, trying to get his mind in order even as he’s talking. “But we can get started, at least.”

Cautiously, he gets up and moves around Tony, closing the office door and returning to his desk. Tony doesn’t remark on it, doesn’t make any of the comments Loki knows he could, he just pulls an as-yet unreleased model of the Stark Phone out of his pocket and waits.

“First of all,” Loki begins. “We need to get your public endorsement of Thor. We can do this any way you want. A speech, an interview—”

“A benefit?” Tony asks. “What if I threw him some sort of fancy party thing, for donations and good food and all that jazz.”

Loki nods slowly, thinking it over. He’s shifting gears now, brain clicking along familiar paths with increasing speed. “That could work. The event itself would be an unspoken endorsement, but if you gave a speech there too... and it would make the campaign some money, which we definitely could use, given Osborn’s super PAC supporters.”

“As a former pro myself, I have to admire the master douchebaggery of deciding money could be used as free speech,” Tony says. “Beautiful. When should all this happen?”

“The sooner the better,” Loki says. “While the accusations against Thor are still fresh in people’s minds.”

“I’ll talk to Pepper, but the soonest something like that could be put into motion would probably be... three weeks. You’d be surprised how willing people are to work at short notice when you offer 200 percent of their usual fee.”

“I’ll look into that, then,” Loki says. Three weeks coincides nicely with when they should be announcing the VP nominee too, but he doesn’t want to overshadow Tony’s endorsement either. Well, he has time to think about it. “Tonight. If we can name a date soon, that would be best.”

“So people can actually buy tickets, yeah,” Tony agrees, fingers flying over his little phone, which flashes from screen to screen like something out of a sci-fi movie. “and all that planning stuff I’m no good at. But let me know, I’ll start setting it up. Should I leave the guest list, promotion, all of that to you?”

“We’ll work it from both sides,” Loki says, pulling a less high-tech legal pad over and jotting down names and notes in the margin. “You get all your big business people— any of them likely to support Thor or at least not disagree publicly with you— and any of the society types you can. I can work the local political figures and news networks, get out the press kits and media information. And send an e-mail blast from the campaign, maybe give away a few tickets to donators or local volunteers.”

“How much should tickets be?” Tony asks, eyes on Loki’s scribbling.

“If I give you Sif’s number, will you actually talk to her?” Loki asks, and he’s smiling at Tony, really smiling, and— Tony’s smiling back, leaning forward in his chair, eyes bright and almost laughing.

Loki rocks back, not aware until he does it how far across the desk he’s moved.

Tony reacts just as quickly. He sits back and turns his attention to his phone. Still smiling, but just politely. And not at Loki, which helps. If he’d kept looking at Loki like that, Loki probably would have hit him. He feels like he’s been tricked. He pushes the anger away, though. Progress. This is progress. And it’s for Thor.

“Well, talk to Sif,” he says. “She’ll give you the numbers, and all those details.”

“I’ll call her,” Tony says, only glancing up from his phone for a second. “Want me to get back to you tonight?”

“I’ll talk to Sif, and my team here,” Loki says. “I’ll call you. Sometime tonight. It could be late.”

“Hey, it’s Wednesday,” Tony says. “I do my hardest partying on Wednesday. I’ll be up.” He stands, and puts his hands in his pockets. “That good for now?”

“Yes,” Loki says, also standing. He doesn’t put his hand out for a handshake, though. “I think so.”

“Yeah, me too,” Tony says, and smiles. Carefully, and not too wide. He turns and leaves the office, and doesn’t look back.

He does, however, salute the gaping crowd that’s gathered in the hallway with two upraised ‘V for Victory’ signs. They break out into applause, and some of them whistle. Loki gets up and closes the door.

 

~

 

“Hey,” Loki mumbled into his phone, rolling over to squint at his alarm clock. Three in the morning. “What’s going on?”

“Hey bro,” Baldr said, sounding completely awake and alert. “What’s happening?”

Next to him, Tony made a soft snuffling noise and shifted a little. But he didn’t wake up. It was impossible to convince him to even take a nap, but once he stopped moving for a second he was out. For at least nine hours.

“Absolutely nothing,” Loki said. Even if there was no danger of Tony waking up, he still thought it might be better to get out of bed. Since he was already doing irrational things, he rescued his boxers from where they’d landed on Tony’s desk earlier that night and pulled them on. Baldr might not know that his little brother was naked while talking to him over the phone, but Loki would. “Baldr, it’s like 6 a.m. your time, are you up really late or really early?”

“Both, kind of? Been a weird week. What about you, dude? How’re midterms treating you?”

Loki shut the door to Tony’s bedroom behind him, still trying to be quiet. “Eh,” he said. “Comparative Mythology was this morning, I think I wrote a killer essay about voudoun symbolism but I was pretty sleep-deprived so I won’t know for a while.”

“Your classes are so freaking cool,” Baldr said.

“In retrospect, they’ll be fantastic,” Loki sighed, settling onto Tony’s couch. “Right now, hardly. Even my oil painting class is crazy this semester.”

“Like you ever hated an art class in your life,” Baldr scoffed.

“Well,” Loki yawned. “There’s just been a lot of pressure since the show at the Winters Gallery.”

“Typical Loki. No way, can’t just ride on the admiration and adulation, gotta jump right to the agonizing and self-doubt. Come on, man. Soak in it a little.”

“I’ve soaked, I’ve soaked,” Loki laughed. “I just don’t want to hear about how expectations are so high and I’ve only just started to prove myself.”

“Shit, did someone say that to you?”

“At least three people have said that to me,” Loki said. “And about four more have heavily implied it.”

“Assholes,” Baldr said.

“Yeah, well,” Loki shrugged. “It’s not like I haven’t dealt with shit like this before. Speaking of being under a lot of pressure, why are you calling at this ungodly hour?”

Baldr laughed. “Harsh, man, harsh. I didn’t realize it was so early there, I just was working on stuff and got all in my head and had to call you. I’ve been sleeping like shit lately anyway, my crickadian rhythms or whatever are totally off. Listen, are you going to be home this summer?”

“That’s the plan,” Loki said. “Why?”

“Well, I’m up for reelection,” Baldr said, like he was giving up some kind of secret.

“Right,” Loki said. Because duh, he knew that. Odin had gone off on a rant about the stupidity of the endless election cycle in American politics the last time he’d called Loki, with all the complacency of someone who’d hold his office for life. “So you want me to work the campaign again?”

“Kind of,” Baldr said. “I’m going for Governor.”

“Wow,” Loki said, feeling fully awake now. He actually didn’t see this coming. “I thought you were thinking of going back to writing full-time.”

“Well,” Baldr said. “Yeah. But I don’t know, I was talking to Thor, and we got started on transit policy—”

“You guys are such dorks,” Loki said. “He gets one phone call a week and you spend it on New York politics.”

“Politics is cool, asshole! It’s hip and happening. But I just started thinking that there’s more that I’d like to do, and the Senate being the shitstorm that it is— or can be, God bless America and whoever’s tapping my phone, but you know what I mean— I think I could do a lot more to help people out as Governor. Plus not going down to DC like, ever again would be pretty good. And I can always go back to the writing stuff later, there’s no rush on all the brilliance just waiting to be unleashed in my brain.”

“The Great American Novel at last?” Loki asked, grinning.

“Fuck that, the Great _Earth_ Novel,” Baldr said. “Aliens are going to cry it’ll be so good.”

“Right,” Loki said. “But yeah, of course, I’ll chain myself to a phone bank for you this summer. Why not.”

“You are awesome,” Baldr said seriously. “I love you, man. I gotta go, I’m going to talk to Dad and Mom about it next, they’re going to freak.”

“Sounds like fun. Get some sleep, at some point.”

“Nah, that’s way too boring,” Baldr said, and hung up.

Loki sat back, dropping the phone onto the couch next to him. Wow, Governor Baldr Gard. It did sound pretty good, and Frigga would be so excited.

He had no doubt Baldr would be awesome at it. Alright, he’s the kind of guy who buys beer for his underage brother and that’s probably not good from a law abiding standpoint, but Baldr wasn’t bullshitting about wanting to help people. Of course he’d probably argue that buying Loki beer _was_ helping people. One of them, at least.

He’d be a good governor, but he was still totally a weirdo.

Loki grinned, and got up to go back to bed.

 

~

 

Loki can’t sleep.

He lies in bed, eyes closed, but the physical likeness of sleeping is not convincing his brain, which is stubbornly awake. And has been for— he cracks an eyelid open to look at the clock on his bedside table— nearly three hours. In three hours he’ll have to get up.

It’s not fair. After that disastrous first dinner he’d been a mess. But he’d been able to sleep. Because it had been over, then. He’d been sure of it. How could it not be?

But now he’s lying in bed, stomach in knots and filled with the absolute certainty that he’s made a terrible mistake.

Because he’s met with Tony once today, and called him on the phone. He’s meeting with him again tomorrow or the day after, so Tony, Sif, Pepper, and Loki can all plot and plan and make this benefit happen within a month (even Tony overpaying caterers won’t be enough to get it done in three weeks, it seems). And who knows, after that? Not daily meetings, Loki’s too busy and it wouldn’t be necessary anyway. But Tony is not just going to do this one thing and fade away. He’s happy to ride along for whenever they need him since— as he said himself and Loki doesn’t doubt— he mostly just signs whatever papers Pepper pushes at him, and spends the rest of his days messing around in his labs.

So he’s got plenty of spare time, to become a part of Loki’s work life. In the most bizarre of nightmare twists, that even in his darkest moment Loki could never have imagined happening to him.

He’s making a huge mistake. However much they need Tony, he can’t be worth this. Because just being around Tony is— It’s completely—

Well, it’s completely electrifying, is what it is. And not in a love-at-first-sight Hollywood crap way either, but more in an actual finger-in-a-socket, hair-raising-and-bordering-on-painful way. His hands were shaking after Tony left his office, actually _shaking._ He went and walked to the Falcon afterwards because he just needed to _move_ , to somehow exorcise the feeling that was running through him, not pain and not pleasure but _something_.

And now he can’t sleep.

Loki refuses to give up and admit that he just can’t sleep. He stares at the ceiling, tosses and turns, and finally slips into a light doze at around four thirty.

He dreams a little, not of Tony, but of mysterious phone calls and someone following him that he doesn’t recognize. He turns a corner and they’re in front of him, taking his picture with an old-school camera that has a giant light bulb on top. The flash when it goes off blinds him.

And he wakes up with a jerk. It’s six, and his alarm is going off.

He has to get up, has to go in, and in addition to deciding on a VP and the coping with the accelerating pace of the campaign as the end of summer gets closer and closer, he has to work out this benefit with Tony.

But for a little while he just lies there, staring at the ceiling and trying to work out what his subconscious thinks he should be afraid of.

 

~

 

“Do anything cool last night?” Loki asked.

Tony didn’t look up from his notebook, scribbling madly and getting ink on his teeth when he stuck the wrong end of his pen in his mouth. At any other time, Loki would find it endearing.

“No,” Tony said. “Not really.”

There are several things that Loki didn’t say:

1) Do anything _not_ cool, then?

2) You could have called me, we could have hung out.

3) Actually, it would have been nice to hang out, didn’t we talk about hanging out?

4) You know, because I brought my stuff down to El Cirrito today about showing it. For my own solo exhibition.

5) I’m pretty sure I told you about it. I’m pretty sure you told me we’d do something last night to take my mind off of it, I’m pretty sure you said that, like, just three days ago.

6) And instead I spent the night alone in my room, staring into space and trying not to think about anything.

7) Are you okay?

8) Is something going on?

9) Are we okay?

What Loki did say was:

“That’s cool.”

Because it happened sometimes. Tony would go quiet, would get distant and short-tempered and lace everything with double his ordinary dose of sarcasm.

Nothing was ever wrong, Tony said, if Loki asked. And so Loki stopped asking. He just tried to pretend everything was fine until it actually _was_ fine again. Because it would be.

He told himself that, and made himself turn back to his econ textbook.

Everything would be fine again.

 

~

 

“Mr. Mayor,” Loki says, putting out his hand. “Thanks for meeting with me.”

“Thanks for agreeing to meet me here,” Steve Rogers says, getting up from where he was perched on the steps of the Metropolitan Museum of Art. “I know it’s a little far out of your way.” He takes Loki’s hand, and Loki’s surprised at the strength of such a small man’s grip. A lot of things about Steve Rogers don’t quite fit with his size, though: His voice seems like it should belong to someone with a much bigger rib cage, for example. And something about the way he makes eye contact with Loki gives him the feeling of talking to someone who’s taller than he is, not a foot shorter. And to see the man give a speech, or go off on one of his famous tirades, you could imagine him to be a giant of a man, not a guy who barely clears 5’3”.

It’s probably why he’s sitting on the steps of the Met without a security detail, and why no one has given him even a second glance. He is simply overlooked. Not many other significant government officials could claim the same, or would want to. But it doesn’t seem to bother Mayor Rogers much.

“Any excuse to get out of my office,” Loki says. “Though I could have come to yours. City Hall’s pretty far from the Met.”

“Honestly, I spend enough time wandering around here for it to actually _be_ my office,” Steve says, leading the way into the Museum. “You’d think they’d let me have part of the American wing or something to work out of, but I get no gratitude.”

The Met’s fairly deserted, as ten a.m. on a Thursday isn’t exactly rush hour. Loki breathes the air in deeply, savoring the faint chill coming up from the marble floor. That and the high, high ceilings take some of the edge off of his exhaustion. It’s been awhile since he’s been a part of this world (not that he would ever have realistically had anything showing in the Met) but the soothing effect of this museum is always the same. Always has been, ever since he was little.

“You went to art school, didn’t you?” Loki asks.

Steve smiles. “For illustration. I thought I might get into comics, and I did a few internships here and there, but I decided to go a different way.”

“The inestimable lure of local government,” Loki says. “Oh, the glamor. The appreciation.”

“Yeah, well,” Steve laughs, hands in his pockets, hunching his shoulders so he appears even smaller. “It’s not that bad, these days.”

Loki lets Steve lead the way and Steve hangs a right into the Egyptian wing without seeming to think about it too much. They wind their way through the Mastaba Tomb of Perneb and past a host of burial statues and sphinxes, sarcophagi and faded papyrus. Loki chats with Steve about the Met, about some of the city’s other museums and galleries, about Loki’s art and Steve’s art and what they’re producing now (given their lines of work: not much).

Loki’s only half paying attention though, as he is still weighing variables in his head, juggling names and statistics and predictions. It doesn’t help that he’s surrounded by all the splendor of ancient kings and gods, as he’s always had a weakness for linking symbolism to real life. It makes this casual meeting feel distractingly auspicious.

He’s just not sure if the symbolic importance is that he’s doing something to earn a place with those gods and kings, or that what he’s doing is utterly insignificant next to all that long-gone glory.

Loki really, really needs to take a nap.

The smaller rooms open up finally into the Temple of Dendur, a more or less complete 2,000-year-old temple standing in the middle of a long, wide room, filled with light coming in through the wall of windows on the right. There’s more air here, and Loki lets himself forget his abstract wondering about kings and gods.

“So,” Loki says, sitting down next to Steve. “You wanted to meet with me?”

Steve doesn’t answer. He’s looking out across the hall and through the windows, the trees of Central Park summer-still in the breezeless air.  

“I’m kind of interested to know why you wanted to talk to me instead of Thor, though,” Loki goes on. “You are aware that he’s the one running for office, right? Not that the family resemblance isn’t remarkable.”

Steve sighs. “I don’t want to rock the boat. I know it’s Thor’s show, and there are proper channels for this stuff. But I just— being the Mayor of this city isn’t really local government anymore, not once you get to this level. I mean, we’ve got the biggest municipal budget in the country, I can’t delude myself into thinking I’m anywhere but the major leagues already. But I got into this in the first place because I wanted to help people, and I feel like that’s what I’m doing.”

He pauses as a couple of brightly-dressed students pass close by, and sighs heavily.

“Anyway, what it boils down to is, I never pictured myself being involved in government on this big of a scale. And I know,” he looks apologetically at Loki “that you didn’t either. And yet, here you are.”

Loki looks down at him, vaguely annoyed. “You want me to tell you it’s alright to walk away from being Vice President.”

“I said I’d do it, so I’ll do it,” Steve says, squaring his jaw and shooting a sharp look at Loki. “If you pick me, I’m not backing out. I just wanted some— I don’t know, someone with more of an insider’s eye than I do to tell me that everything people say about the Vice Presidency isn’t true. Most of my advisors tell me to go for it, that I’ll be able to help even more people by breaking into national politics. And it’s a good place to start a national career of my own, if that’s what I want. But I can’t help thinking that New York politicians seem to fall apart when you take us out of our native environment.” He smiles a little. “Probably because we’re too obnoxious for everyone else.”

“If you become VP you’ll get to deal with a hundred Senators,” Loki says. “Trust me, you don’t even _know_ obnoxious.”

Steve laughs uncertainly, like he hopes that Loki’s joking.

He’s really not. But Loki takes pity on the guy.

“You’re right,” Loki says. “If you’d’ve asked me when I was... eighteen, or twenty years old, if I would ever have gotten into politics, I would’ve laughed at the idea. But when I did get involved, it wasn’t because of power, or ambition—”

“Or your family,” Steve supplies.

“No,” Loki corrects him, but calmly. “It was because of my family. Not in the way that most people think— I didn’t change my mind because it was some laid-out destiny— but through my... my family I learned how important this work is. At the expense of other plans, other ideas, other dreams: this is important.”

He stops, because this is verging on territory he doesn’t like to reexamine. Steve is looking up at him thoughtfully.

“I got into it because I realized that I wasn’t doing much good by getting into fistfights in alleys, trying to make a difference,” Steve says. “One day I realized that there were bigger bullies out there. And that on this field, I’ve got my own kind of strength. And I can— I have— done good. It’s important to me. I don’t want to lose that.”

“You won’t,” Loki says. Aww, shit. He’s looking at this man, who really had been floating nearer to the bottom of his selection of possible running mates, and now... “You won’t. The field is bigger, and so are the bullies, but it’s still a place where you can do good.”

Steve nods, and smiles. “Wouldn’t mind getting into it with some of those Republican Senators. I might have practiced a few choice speeches shouting at my TV a few times.”

“That doesn’t surprise me,” Loki says.

“It shouldn’t,” Steve says. He gets to his feet, and grins down at Loki. “What do you know, I actually feel better.”

“I hardly ever have that effect on people,” Loki says. “So this is a big day for me too.”

Steve laughs, and the sound is the thing that catches the attention of the people wandering through the hall and around the Temple, and Loki sees the flash recognition in their faces, the first he’s seen all day.  

“I should head back to City Hall,” Steve says. “Want a ride?”

“No, I’ll stick around here for a while. I wasn’t kidding about needing to get out of headquarters. But,” he gets to his feet, and claps Steve on the shoulder. “I’ll be in touch soon.”

“Alright,” Steve says amiably. “Good luck with the campaign. I just got my invitation to the Stark benefit, I’m sure you’re up to your eyeballs in party planning.”

“Yes, The real reason I got into politics,” Loki says dryly. “Place settings and catering. Such joy.”

Steve heads off, back the way they came. Loki hesitates for a moment before going past the ruins, hanging a left and leaving the great hall behind him.

He hasn’t been to the Met very recently, and even when he was visiting almost weekly he still was never completely sure of its layout: which is part of what he likes about it. But he still feels a little thrill of satisfaction when he finds that he still remembers the way to the Medieval Hall.

It’s not as grand as some of the other parts of the Museum. The hall’s more dimly lit, littered with medieval altarpieces, tapestries, furniture, and dominated by the ornate screen in the middle of the room. It’s still pretty spacious but is always close and dark and quiet, and it’s always been Loki’s favorite part of the whole place.

He doesn’t sit down, because he really shouldn’t hang around here for too long. He really does have a lot to do. And most of it, inexplicably, involves Tony. Even more of it does now, actually. Since he’s pretty sure who should be Thor’s running mate now, that’s off his to-do list.

It doesn’t make him feel that much better.

Planning for the Stark benefit is at full-tilt, and somehow Loki is wrapped up in it. It isn’t really his job to manage events, they have schedulers and planners for this. But somehow (he suspects through an unholy alliance between Pepper Pots and Sif) he’s become instrumental to the party. And Tony has been in his office at least once a day, for at least an hour, for the past three days. Given that before this _week_ Loki hadn’t talked to Tony for years, it’s a bit of an abrupt change.

And Tony isn’t _doing_ anything. He listens to what Loki has to say, asks questions, and offers his own good ideas. He’s professional, or as professional as Tony can ever really be for a long period of time. He hasn’t... he hasn’t flirted with Loki. Or come within two feet of him, ever.

But he’s never more than four feet away from him either. It’s a very exact measurement, worthy of a man who is intimately acquainted with the precision of lasers. Less than four feet, more than two. Always.

Loki is very aware of it.

His phone goes off in his pocket. Loki accelerates out of his ambling museum walk and heads out of the Medieval Hall, smiling apologetically at a frowning security guard as he answers.

“Hello?” he says, trying to be quiet until he makes it into the main atrium.

“Hey,” Fenrir says. “How did it go with Steve? He didn’t back out, did he?”

“I think he was thinking about it,” Loki admits. “But I talked him around.”

“You, a motivational speaker,” Fenrir says. “Now I’ve heard everything. Are you coming back now?”

Loki sighs. “Yeah, I’ll get a cab. Can you get me the recordings of Thor’s speech at West Point?”

“Sure,” Fenrir says. “And yes, I did check to make sure that no one shot him for wanting to end the war in Iraq. So unless the news cycle has developed a new and even more worrying set of priorities, he’s fine.”

“Good to know,” Loki says. “Well, I’ll see—”

“One more thing,” Fenrir says. “I got a call from Clint Barton this morning.”

“Really,” Loki says, slowing as he moves down the Met’s front steps.

“He wasn’t calling me as part of Thor’s campaign, either. He was asking about you.”

“About me?” Loki hadn’t been prepared for that, he can admit it. “Why?”

“No idea,” Fenrir says. “He was asking a lot about how we met, how well I knew you, that kind of thing. I don’t know what he was digging for, since I cut him off pretty early on.”

Fenrir probably did, too. Loki had gleefully shown him the newspaper articles about how furious the Skrull Party leadership was with Barton after the reporter had followed a tip on corruption in the Party. Loki had fed him that tip, but in bringing it to light Barton brought along with it a massive story involving oil deals with China and Iran, two Congressmen, and the corporation that owned the paper which was employing Barton at the time.

Needless to say, after that story broke they hadn’t employed him for very long.

It had been a private coup for Loki. The Skrull Party had been an increasing annoyance to him. They didn’t bother with Thor much, as he had only been in the Senate for about a year at that point, but they were still so far to the right that Loki just found them annoying. And when he happened to catch the right whisper and sight of a few documents... he was hardly disposed to ignore it. And feeding the tip to Barton kept Loki (and Thor) well out of the mess that followed, as the Skrull Party more or less imploded.

That had been that for the Skrull Party. But Barton had lingered, leaving Loki screaming voice mails for months after he lost his job.

Loki didn’t lose much sleep over it, and eventually the calls had stopped.

But he’s fairly sure that whatever reason Barton is digging around into his life for, it isn’t good.

“You might want to talk to someone,” Fenrir says. “He knew stuff already, stuff about your childhood. He named people I’ve never even heard you mention— staff, teachers, friends of your brothers— He’s got something in his sights, definitely.”

“I don’t know what he could be after,” Loki says, sounding more calm than he feels. Barton on the hunt is _not_ good. His tenacity was why Loki had fed him the Skrull information in the first place, but he’d never expected it to turn around on him. “I’ve been out since I was a kid, he can’t be on that.”

“No, it’s not that,” Fenrir says. “But he did ask me if I could get him in touch with any of your exes before I hung up on him.”

Loki thinks about it. “I don’t think any of them would have any information. I mean, _I_ don’t know what he’s looking for, so how they hell could they? And I get along with, well, pretty much all of them now,” —with one glaring exception that Loki doesn’t bother to note— “I don’t think anyone would even talk to him.”

“Childhood friends was the other one,” Fenrir says. “I don’t know who you want to talk to about this, but you should probably talk to someone.”

“Right,” Loki says. “Right. Yeah. Alright, I’m coming back to HQ now.”

“Sure, Stark’s already here.”

Loki makes a vague sort of grunt, and hangs up.

He hails a cab and sits back in the seat, jabbing at the ‘mute’ button on the babbling TV screen set into the back of the chair in front of him.

If he just knew what Barton was looking for... he’s sure, he’s _damn_ sure that there’s nothing in his life that Barton could be trying to find. He’s been out since he was in his teens, he’s had no run-ins with the law, no use of drugs beyond what everyone gets away with now in politics anyway (though Loki did inhale, and he can admit it).

If he was hiding something, he’d know it. He’d know how to protect it.

But he has no idea what this is about. And the thought of that is more frightening than any secret could be.

He gets to his office before too long, and Tony is there already, being charming and odd and attended to by a rapt audience of interns and staff members. They disperse quickly once Loki gets there though, he notes with no small degree of satisfaction.

The constant prickle that accompanies Tony’s intrusions on his life is some distraction at least from worrying about Barton. If the tension bleeds out of his shoulders a little bit as they settle in to talk about speakers at the benefit, Tony lingering just two feet away but coming no closer, Loki doesn’t think too much about it.

 

~

 

And just like that, Tony was back on again, and everything _was_ alright.

Granted, the night of his opening at El Cirrito, Loki was so giddy that _everything_ seemed alright. The gallery was a palace, the lighting was heavenly, even the tiny little hot dogs and shrimp cocktail platter set out in the back was the most delicious food Loki had ever tasted.

“Is she talking to Martha?” Loki asked Tony, refusing to look at the impeccably-dressed woman who’d spent the last half an hour standing in front of _Fur-lined_ , her hand pressed over her mouth.

“She’s looking around now,” Tony said, thumbs pressing gentle circles into the tight muscles of Loki’s shoulders. “So she’s either looking for Martha, or she’s realized her husband’s ditched her for the hors d'oeuvres.”

“Well Martha’s been camped out by the buffet table all night to try and pick off the hungry and weak ones, so either way it could work out,” Loki said. He smoothed a hand over his hair again. He’d started growing it out a little and had taken to gelling it back, in an attempt to look like less of a fucking kid. He still wasn’t used to hair touching his ears or tickling the back of his neck.

“Never would have expected a gallery director to be so cutthroat,” Tony said. “I should see if I can get her on the Board of Directors.”

“I don’t think boards of directors work that way.”

“Hush, you right-brained hippie, leave the business talk to the men, okay?” but he leaned forward and pressed a kiss to the side of Loki’s neck.

“Oh shut up, both of you,” Fenrir sighed from next to Loki. He was the only one actually looking to see what the possible buyer was doing. “She’s talking to Martha, she’s— yeah, she’s pointing at the painting.”

“I might throw up,” Loki said.

“Excuse me, are you the artist?”

Loki turned. A girl about his own age had somehow crept up on him without his noticing her, which just went to show how out of it he was: this girl had _presence._ She was dressed like any number of girls Loki had seen around campus this spring: sundress, hair pulled back in a ponytail, basic makeup, but there was something in the way she made eye contact and _held_ it, something in her posture or how she spoke, that made it impossible to look away from her.

“Umm,” Loki said, uncharacteristically stunned. “Yeah. I mean, yeah, that’s me. I am.”

“Your work’s very impressive,” she said, smiling at him like she dealt with babbling morons all the time. “Tell me a little bit about this one—” and she pointed where Loki had decided to hang one of his favorites in the series.

“That’s _Early Morning Windowsill_ ,” Loki said, detaching from Tony to walk over to his painting. Tony and Fenrir drifted after them, both looking as stunned as Loki felt. “It’s one of my favorites.”

“I could tell,” the girl said, turning her lazer-sharp eyes on the painting. “You’ve given it the best spot in the gallery. Out of direct sunlight but it’ll still pick up the natural light during the day, but when it’s dark like this the lighting’s not too bright on it. It’s not directly next to the door but set where it’s one of the first things your eye lands on when you come in. And these next to it are in a much cooler palate, so all that gold and red just explodes out.”

Loki felt for a disorienting second that he might be falling in love.

“It just seemed worthy of it,” Loki said, clearing his throat. “I don’t always feel like everything comes together when I’m painting— it’s not like the muse descends, I have to work and redo and chart out almost everything for most of my best pieces— but this one, I spent just a weekend on it, barely leaving the studio, and I knew the second it was done. It just all... worked. It didn’t come out how I pictured it when I started; it came out better.”

The girl nodded thoughtfully. “Who is she?” She asked, gesturing at the girl in the painting: she could have been any age, obscured as her face and figure were by the radiant morning light streaming out from behind her. There was some youthfulness to her movement though, caught mid-jump either up or down onto the titular windowsill.

“A couple of different people,” Loki said slowly, forgetting to be stunned by his companion as he looked at the painting. “There’s some of my mom in there; we have a windowseat in our house like that that she loves to sit on. But I was thinking a lot at the time about a girl I was friends with growing up. We got in a fight before we started school, because she wanted to go to the same school as her boyfriend and I thought it was a terrible idea. Not that I was being purely selfless, since the other place she was thinking of was Pomona and I wanted us to at least be in the same state.” He shrugged. “We haven’t talked since then. I was mad for a while. And this wasn’t really about her at first, but as I did it, I just... I forgot to be mad anymore. And it got to be more and more about her, or at least to have more of her in it.”

Tony was frowning, which Loki supposed made sense. He hadn’t mentioned Sigyn before, not really. He tended not to. Loki didn’t like to open old wounds. And he could admit that maybe he didn’t want Tony to see that side of himself, the one that could feel just as bitter and angry about a two-year-old fight as if it had happened yesterday. It wasn’t something Loki was proud of, but it wasn’t something he could change, either.

“What was her name?” The girl asked. But before Loki could answer, she shook her head. “Nevermind. I don’t want to know, it’s better not to know.”

Loki smiled. Someone getting it, really getting it— he never got tired of the feeling. The girl smiled back.

“Yes,” she said. “I’ll take it.”

“You’ll— what?” Loki reeled. She could have punched him in the face and he probably would’ve been less surprised (she did give off the impression of someone who could possibly resort to violence if necessary).

“I’ll take it,” she repeated firmly. She bent down to look at the tiny sticker next to the painting, and made a tsking noise. “For this price, I’d be an idiot not to. This’ll only appreciate in value after you graduate and hit the industry.”

“But— you—” Loki stammered.

“I’m Sif,” the girl said, holding out a hand for Loki to shake. “We should be friends, I think.”

Loki started laughing, and shook her hand with both of his. “Yes! Definitely! Thank you, thank you so much.”

Sif smiled at him, raising an eyebrow when she apparently felt that the handshaking had gone on for long enough. Loki held on for another ten seconds before he realized, but he couldn’t stop laughing.

“Let’s get some air,” Loki said to Tony, as Sif moved off to talk to Martha. “Fenrir, I’m appointing you acting Loki.”

“I’ll work on my imperious glare,” Fenrir said, sticking his nose up in the air in a way Loki was absolutely certain he never did. But Loki was too giddy to correct him.

“I can’t believe I just sold a painting,” Loki said, letting Tony lead him out of the gallery without paying a lot of attention to where they were going.

“I can,” Tony said. He slid his arm around Loki’s waist. He did that, when things were okay like they had been for a while now: free with small touches and tiny details, like running a hand through Loki’s hair or kissing the inside of his wrist.

“That one was like, $5,000,” Loki marvelled. “She looked like she’s still in school, how is she— Tony, where are we going?”

They hadn’t stopped just outside the door, but Loki hadn’t really absorbed that until they were already across the street and halfway across the darkened parking lot. And were heading for Tony’s car, apparently.

“Nowhere,” Tony said, all innocence.

“Tony, the reception goes for another _two hours,_ I can’t just leave.”

“We’re not going anywhere,” Tony said, though, okay, they were _definitely_ walking towards his car. Tony was taking his keys out of the pocket of his suit jacket and everything.

“What the hell, Tony,” Loki laughed, because he still felt like everything was good and perfect and hilarious just then. “You’re not being super subtle, that is clearly your car. It’s the only one with gold racing stripes in this lot. Possibly in the world.” The hot rod red almost glowed in the pale light of the streetlamps studded throughout the parking lot, and there weren’t that many cars still there.

“If I was trying to go for subtle,” Tony said, letting go of Loki to unlock the car, then turning back to face him. Ah. Loki knew that look. “I wouldn’t be about to blow you in my backseat.”

Loki swallowed. His suit suddenly was much too warm. “I guess that makes—” was all he could say before Tony was on him, hand curled tight around the back of his neck and one hand already thrust under his jacket to grab at the small of his back. He kissed Loki desperately, helplessly, but Loki could feel Tony’s smile before he licked into his mouth.

“God,” Tony said, once he’d pulled back and started sucking and biting kisses down the line of Loki’s neck. He whispered against Loki’s skin, and Loki wasn’t sure if it was the feeling of Tony’s teeth or his breath skating over his skin that was making him shiver and moan. “You’re just unreal.”

“You’re just turned on because someone spent five grand on me,” Loki managed to gasp out, rocking his hips against Tony’s and earning himself a gratifying hiss of surprise. And then he had to do it again, because Tony needed to keep making noises like that.

“That does sound like me,” Tony growled against Loki’s throat.

He shoved Loki back so he could pull open the door to the car’s backseat, and yanked Loki in after him.

The car was too small, or maybe Loki was just too big, still trying to figure out what to do with all this height that had ambushed him during high school. One leg kicked up against the window, one knee pressed tightly between Tony’s legs, Loki knocked his head against the opposite window trying to kiss Tony again.

“This was a terrible idea,” he laughed, trying to shift up and find a way to fold himself more sensibly over Tony in a way that didn’t involve digging an elbow into his stomach.

“I have no terrible ideas,” Tony grumbled, hands at Loki’s belt with an impressive amount of focus. “You’re just too tall.”

Loki was about to respond, but then Tony was unzipping the fly of his slacks and Loki forgot everything he was about to say.

And just like that, the backseat’s size didn’t feel like such a problem anymore.

Tony didn’t blow him, which was probably a good thing. And moving over Tony in the darkness of the car, Tony’s hands wrapped around them both and Loki gasping out quietly, arms starting to shake from holding him up and eyes locked squarely on Tony’s... it was enough.

And Loki could never stay quiet when he came, he couldn’t stifle the moans (and sometimes, the shouts) and sometimes Tony would laugh, breathlessly, and put a hand over Loki’s mouth. More because he liked how that made Loki’s eyes flash and his back arch than because he minded the noise. Tony wasn’t like that. He came quietly, mouth spreading in a smile and eyes fluttering closed, but only letting out a sigh that was half a laugh.

“Well,” Loki said finally, collapsing a little onto his elbows and letting his head drop into the hollow between Tony’s shoulders and neck. “That’s completely fucked up your suit.”

“Wha?” Loki could feel Tony shift a little against him. “Oh. Yeah.”

“Mine too, probably,” Loki said. He couldn’t bring himself to sound too upset about it though.

“Sorry,” Tony said. It always took a little while for him to work back up to two-syllable words. So Loki was surprised when, with what sounded like an effort, Tony said: “Hey, I’ve been thinking. You should stay here for a few weeks.”

“After finals?” They actually hadn’t talked about the summer at all, though the school year was ending in just a few weeks. Tony had been pretty moody until recently, so Loki hadn’t felt it was a safe subject to bring up. That Tony was the one bringing it up made Loki smile helplessly into Tony’s neck.

“Yeah,” Tony brought his hands up to the small of Loki’s back. His shirt had come untucked, and Tony’s hands were cool and still slick against Loki’s skin. He shivered.

“Why?”

“Got the internship at Phoenicia Labs.”

“What?” Loki leaned up to look down at Tony. “When did you find out?”

Tony shrugged. His eyes were closed. “Week ago, something like that.”

“Oh,” Loki shifted a little. His left leg was starting to cramp up. “You didn’t say anything.”

Tony opened his eyes. “Yeah, well. You should stay for a few weeks. I know you’ve got the campaign, but I just thought—”

“No, that sounds great,” Loki said. “And this semester’s been so crazy. Baldr won’t mind. I’ll talk to him, if I go home a week or two late, it’s no big deal.”

Tony grinned, bright and irresistible. “Cool. Okay, get up, I have a spare suit in the trunk.”

Loki managed to lever himself back up to a sitting position. “I’m not even surprised.”

“I need to come up with some new surprises then,” Tony leaned in for a kiss. Long, and slow. “Let’s go. You should look your best for all those art fans desperate to drop thousands on your masterpieces.”

Loki sort of thought that there wasn’t much they could do to make it look like he _hadn’t_ just had sex in the limited space of a sports car’s backseat.

His suspicions were confirmed when they came back into the gallery five minutes later.

“Awwwww really?” Fenrir said, before Loki could even say anything. “You know how much grief Martha gave me for letting you run off? And all just so you could get _laid?”_

But then Martha was walking over to introduce someone else to Loki, and Tony stepped away to give them space to talk. His hand lingered on Loki’s back for a moment though, and Loki grinned. Some things were worth taking time to enjoy. And he’d be there for the rest of the summer, wouldn’t he? Baldr would understand.

 

~

 

“And she said she was fine,” Fandral says in Loki’s office. “But she emptied a tissue box yesterday and by the end of the day she couldn’t do anything but croak.”

Loki tries not to smile. “And how did she react to your mutiny?”

“Well,” Fandral sighs, carefully sitting down in such a way that his suit doesn’t wrinkle. “It was surprisingly easy to hide her purse, which alone was a sign that we were doing the right thing.”

Loki laughs.

“So,” Fandal says, not laughing. He’d never been the biggest fan of Loki’s, possibly because he thinks Loki doesn’t take things seriously enough. More specifically, he doesn’t think Loki takes Fandral seriously enough. Or because, unlike practically everyone Fandral meets, Loki is unmoved by his shining blonde hair and posh English/Eton/Cambridge accent. “I’m supposed to take you and Mr. Stark to her place. She’d only agree to stay home if you could still work on the benefit.”

Loki stops laughing. “Why does everyone assume I have the free time for this? Thor’s on the road, but just because Don and Molly are with him doesn’t mean I don’t have a lot to do.”

Fandral shrugs. “We were under the definite impression that this was an important event. Possibly _the_ most important social event of this campaign. If that’s not the case, we could just call the whole endeavor off.”

Loki glares. Fandral smiles.

“Yo, boss,” Darcy says from the door.

“What have I told you about the ‘yo’ thing?” Loki snaps, looking around at her.

“I don’t remember, I tuned you out somewhere in between ‘get off my lawn’ and ‘turn down that music, it’s too loud.’” Darcy snaps right back. “Tony’s in the lobby, just giving you a heads up.”

So he’s ‘Tony’ now? Loki wonders for a second if he should be worried, as Darcy is over ten years younger than Tony. No, what is he thinking? If there’s something going on, he should really be more worried about Tony.

“Thanks,” is all he says. He stands up, fighting the impulse to smooth out the lines in his black slacks. It’s just a reaction to Fandral’s perfectly-dressed presence, and Loki doesn’t want to give him to satisfaction of appearing ruffled. No pun intended.

“Alright, field trip,” Tony says. He claps Fandral warmly on the shoulder. He doesn’t come near Loki. Well, not nearer than two feet. “My driver’s probably still nearby, he hasn’t had the chance to dash off on another attempt to seduce my assistant.”

Loki gapes a little.

Tony pulls out his phone and is dialing into it before he notices Tony’s look. “What?”

Fandral answers for Loki, the prick. “I just assumed that you and Miss Potts were...”

“Me and Pepper?” Tony smiles, and doesn’t look at Loki. “Nah. In another life, maybe. I suspect she’s universes too good for me. Hap! Cancel your free time plans and come back and pick me up. Yeah, got to keep you on your toes.”

“We could just walk,” Loki says, trying not to sound petulant.

“In this heat?” Tony says as he leads the way out of the lobby, towards the exit.

Loki frowns. “It’s not that bad today, only in the mid-eighties.”

“Whatever, Al Roker, save your green screen for someone who cares,” Tony slides on a pair of shades (not his pink ones, these ones are purple, God, this guy). The car pulls up before Loki can respond, and Tony slides in.

Sif, predictably, never has given much of a shit about where she lives. Her office is a terrifying spectacle of metal and glass, because she knows that’s what will either intimidate or impress employees, clients, and competitors. She applies a similar strategy in how she dresses and does her hair and makeup (“war paint,” she’d referred to it once, when Loki had ended up staying the night and witnessing Sif’s oddly entrancing morning ritual). But her house, both as far as location and what she does with it, she couldn’t care less about.

She owns a brownstone in Brooklyn’s Park Slope, which she inherited from her father. But as she spends about as much time at home as Loki does in his, she’s rented out the top two floors for many years, keeping only the basement apartment to herself. It’s small, windowless, and crowded with books and knick-knacks accumulated from various adventures around the world.

Loki’s always loved it, and often secretly wishes Sif would invite him over more. The pleasure in finally getting the invite is definitely killed by the presence of Tony and Fandral, and then by the terrifying look of Sif once she answers the door.

“Glad you’re here,” she says, trying for her usual confidence and clarity of tone, but brought up short by a fit of sneezing.

“Holy shit,” Loki says. “Are you wearing _sweatpants?”_

“They’re Rag and Bone harem pants, they were very expensive,” Sif snaps, though it seems like the sneezing took some of the fight out of her. “And shut up.”

Fandral enters first, and Loki’s about to follow before he realizes that Tony’s out of his four-foot radius for the first time this morning. He turns, and Tony’s standing at the top of the small flight of stairs that leads down to Sif’s place.

“Coming?” Loki asks. Tony’s face is oddly still, his hands jammed deeply in his pockets.

“She doesn’t live upstairs?” Tony asks. Loki can’t see his eyes behind the sunglasses; the light’s wrong for it. But he sounds... off.

“No, I think there are a few ballerinas in there now, Sif likes the basement.”

Tony looks up at the building, and then back at where his chauffeur is still waiting. Loki looks over at Happy too, and although Tony’s face is still a careful blank, even through the windshield Loki can read the expression on Happy’s. The man looks... worried.

“You don’t have to come in,” Loki says slowly.

Tony turns back to him quickly, lip curling in a sneer. “And miss the sight of Sif hacking and coughing all over you and Fandral? Not a chance.” And he pushes past Loki— or rather, comes as close to pushing past him without actually touching him— into the apartment.

Loki glances over at Happy again. The man’s settling back into the seat again, but he’s frowning thoughtfully. He notices Loki looking at him then, and snaps his eyes back onto the road.

Well. That’s... a little weird. And maybe a bit worrying.

But Loki shakes it off, and heads inside.

Sif’s already vanished into the kitchen, and Loki can hear the whine of the kettle. To his delight, she’s apparently press-ganged Fandral into setting up some sort of cookie platter. Loki toys with the idea of tipping a plate full of crumbs on Fandral’s Brooks Brothers ensemble, but dismisses it. If Fandral didn’t murder him, Sif certainly would for getting crumbs on her plush carpet.

It’s brightly lit down here, and pleasantly cool. Tony’s drifted off to look around at Sif’s decoration, and seems... no different than usual. Loki almost thinks he imaged that weird exchange outside.

And then he realizes what Tony’s looking at.

Tony half-turns, not looking at Loki but clearly registering that he’s there. Loki can’t help it— he drifts over to stand a little way behind Tony. Not close enough to touch, but close enough to clearly look at the painting Sif has hanging in between her bookshelves.

“I haven’t seen this one before,” Tony says. “But it’s yours, isn’t it.” It’s not really a question, and Loki doesn’t bother to answer.

“You can tell,” Tony goes on, raising a hand to point at the painting. “And hiding your signature with blue on blue, very clever.”

Loki’s throat has gone dry. He feels a sudden mad urge to fling something over the painting, or rip it off the wall. He won’t— Sif paid a lot for it; he’s starting to worry about how many of these ideas end in Sif murdering him— but he just wants Tony to stop _looking_ at it.

It’s not a painting Tony’s seen, that’s true. Loki painted it after he’d left California. But he’s standing with Tony, in front of his work, work that Sif’s purchased. It’s much, much too close.

Tony’s still not looking at him. Loki turns and heads into the kitchen, because he can’t think of a single thing to say. And going to the kitchen is slightly better than fleeing the house.

By the time Sif and Fandral lead the way back into the living room Tony’s turned his back on the painting and is doing something on his phone.

It occurs to Loki that neither Sif nor Tony have ever acknowledged that they’ve met. Technically, he supposes, they didn’t. Which might explain it. Tony was there when Sif and Loki met, but that was the only time the three of them were together. And they never spoke to each other. And, Loki reminds himself, it was a long time ago. It is deeply strange though, to see them in the same place. And it hasn’t stopped being strange just because it they’ve been meeting every single day to plan this fucking benefit. Or it feels that way, sometimes.

“Despite how it looks, Osborn’s base with business is shaky,” Tony’s saying to Sif when Loki tunes back in. “At least, with anyone who thinks outsourcing thousands of jobs to Indonesia is slightly objectionable.”

“So you haven’t had a problem bringing some of your buddies around?” Sif sniffles.

Tony cringes. “‘Buddies’ is such a strong word. But no, a good amount have committed to the benefit, plenty of speeches, toasts, yadda yadda.”

“You didn’t have a hard time talking them ‘round?” Fandral says.

“Nah,” Tony shrugs. “Just a few threats, a few shady deals.”

Sif narrows her eyes at him.

“I’m kidding, I’m kidding, god germs make you touchy, most of them are totally on board with Thor, you’d be surprised by how many business type love to see a blonde in a—”

And the power went out.

“Oh, not _again_ ,” Sif grumbles. “ _This_ is why I told you I didn’t want to work at home, Fandral, god _dammit._ Ancient wiring in this house is all to hell.”

“Anything we should do?” Loki asks. Sif’s apartment, while cozy, doesn’t have any windows in the living room, and the darkness is total. He keeps waiting for his eyes to adjust, but there seems to be little difference between having his eyes open or shut.

“No, I just need to fiddle with the fuse box, it’s in my bedroom. Fandral, come on, you know where it is and you’re tall enough to reach it.” There’re soft shuffling noises, something brushes past Loki’s knee, and Fandral and Sif move off. Or he thinks they do, anyway. He still can’t really see anything.

“So Fandral knows where the fuse box in Sif’s bedroom is,” Loki muses, after a moment of silence. “I’d make a joke about this, but the idea is actually too terrifying.”

No response.

Loki turns, more on impulse than because he can actually see anything.

“Think she has any flashlights?” he asks. “I didn’t think to ask.”

“Do me a favor,” Tony says, almost cutting Loki off. His voice sounds heavy and thick, like it’s an effort to say anything. “Keep talking.”

“What?”

“Keep. Talking.”

“Uh,” Loki’s not exactly sure what’s going on, but Happy’s face flashes into his head and he thinks, ‘ _oh’._ “President Osborn flew out to Iraq today, I think he’s trying to get onto the other side of Thor’s position on the war. The problem with that strategy is, not too many people are into the hawkish thing anymore, and Thor’s speech actually was well-received. At _West Point_.”

He can hear Tony moving, slow steps scuffing against the carpet.

“Thor’s war record is exemplary, Osborn going to bat on those issues is so stupid. You know, I think I’m going to ask Steve Rogers to be Thor’s running mate.” Well, he hadn’t meant to say that. Whoops.

“The mayor?” Tony says. He sounds closer, but Loki still can’t place where he is.

“Yeah, I met with him a few days ago, he wasn’t even trying but he won me over. Speaking of blondes, the two of them are just going to blow everyone away with their apple pie, blue-eyed, awww shucks American looks. I haven’t talked to Thor about it yet, though. I was thinking of asking Dr. Banner to be his Secretary of State instead— he was the Ambassador to India, he’s got the chops and he was my other top pick for the job— but I should clear it all with Thor first. And he’s still on the road. Iowa now, for about three speeches, then on to Ohio. Never hurts to get in there first, though he’ll be going to New Mexico next mostly just so he can visit Jane’s family.”

Something bumps against the back of the chair where Loki’s sitting, and Loki freezes.

“I know Dr. Banner,” Tony says, and yes, it sounds like he’s right behind Loki now. This close, Loki thinks he can almost hear his breathing. And it’s fast, too fast, shallow and almost panicked. But his voice is steady, though Loki suspects Tony only keeps it like that with an enormous effort.

 _Jesus,_ Loki thinks, _What did they do to you?_

He expects Tony to put out a hand now, to touch him, now that he’s so close. But Tony doesn’t, though Loki can feel the warmth of him all along his back— he must be standing very, _very_ close, much closer than he’s ever been before. Well, since he blasted his way back into Loki’s life, anyway.

“Yeah, he’s brilliant,” Loki goes on, because something is happening here and he doesn’t really get it, but if Tony needs him to talk through it, he can talk through it. “Got some anger issues, which would make him dicey as VP, and maybe wouldn’t make him the best for Secretary of State either, now that I think about it.”

“Any other ideas?” Tony says.

“My other VP idea was Natasha Romanov,” Loki admits, because suddenly it’s alright to spill every secret of the campaign to Tony. “She’s former CIA, very brilliant, very lethal, perfect for international affairs. Again though, maybe not something the public’s ready for. I still have time, picking out Thor’s cabinet is sort of putting the horse before the cart in a big way. It’s not even August yet.”

Tony’s breath seems to be steadying, and Loki keeps expecting him to put a hand on his shoulder, _something_ , and he’s pretty sure the expectation is killing him more than the shock of contact would.

“You’ve got a plan, though,” Tony says. Something’s loosened in his tone, Loki can hear it, and almost sags forward with relief. “That’s you, you’ve got plans and back-ups and back-ups for your back-ups.”

“That’s me,” Loki says, suddenly feeling very tired. “Prepared for everything.”

“Goes with the image,” Tony says, still a little shaky. “Loki Gard, Ice King of the party, striking terror into the hearts of the wicked and right-leaning.”

“That’s good, we should work that into the campaign slogan,” Loki says.

And the lights go back on.

“Fucking _finally,”_ he hears Sif yell from her bedroom.

Loki turns around, blinking, temporarily blinded. But Tony’s already across the room, heading straight for the door.

Loki gets up and follows him out before he really thinks about what he’s doing, just holding up a finger to Sif and Fandral as they come back into the living room.

“Hey,” Loki says, once he’s outside. Then he stops. He doesn’t actually have a follow-up to that, just wanted to say _something_.

Tony’s already up the steps and almost to the car. Happy’s out and coming around the side to meet him, and Loki wonders if Tony didn’t hear him. But Tony stops, and turns around.

He looks pale, very pale. And he’s sweating, and is rubbing at the center of his chest with one hand like it’s hurting him. Still, being Tony, he attempts a smile.

“All that political talk, just too much for me. Had to get some fresh air,” Tony says. He glances at Happy and waves a hand at him. “Down boy, Daddy’s just a little tired.”

Happy frowns. “Mr. Stark, if you need me to—”

“I’m fine,” Tony says, “See how fine I am?” But he’s still rubbing his chest, and is staring around now at the street like he’s trying to memorize it, drink in every detail.

Loki feels lost, now. He wishes he hadn’t followed Tony outside.

Tony looks at him then, and something in his jaw twitches.

No one says anything.

Happy looks the most unhappy (oh, the tragedy of having such a name, Loki feels pity for him as a kid, he really does), obviously torn between getting back in the car and forcibly putting Tony in the backseat.

Tony laughs. “God, it’s hot out here. I gotta get someplace with a pool. Somewhere with little drinks with umbrellas in the top, you think you know the place, Hap?”

“I think we can find something like that, Mr. Stark,” Happy says, a little cautiously.

“Then let’s do it,” Tony says. He turns away, but hesitates. Without looking back at Loki he says, quietly. “Thanks,” and then he’s in the car and gone before Loki can say anything else.

Loki watches him go.

He’ll start thinking of what to say to Fandral and Sif in a second. Right now, he’s trying to work out how to feel about what just happened.

He’s not having a lot of luck with that.

 

~

 

The semester of Loki’s sophomore year ended on May 25.

The plan was to stay on campus until June 15th, then he’d go back and work on Baldr’s campaign, hopefully having worked in enough time with Tony to last them the rest of the summer.

Loki started packing on June 13th, at 11 a.m. He wasn’t sure about leaving in two days though: Tony’d been pretty busy with the internship at Phoenicia, they hadn’t really been able to spend as much time together as Loki had hoped. Things aren’t bad. Just, well, busy.

On June 13th, at 2:30 p.m. PST, Loki resolved to call Baldr again. See if he couldn’t stay another week, if Baldr needed him that badly.

Loki forgot to call Baldr. He was packing his copy of “The Return of the King” and couldn’t resist flipping it open. It only took a little while for him to get lost in it, after flipping forward to Pippin’s blunder with the Palantir, and he forgot to call his brother.

He read until Tony came home, and then they both got pretty distracted.

On June 13th, at 8:30 p.m. EST, Baldr Gard left his apartment in the Village.

At 8:35 p.m., he stepped off the sidewalk to avoid a crowd that had formed around a group of (admittedly, very talented) buskers.

It’s possible that he had time to see the cab, swerving out of one lane to get around a slow-moving van with Connecticut plates, swerving right in front of him.

But he didn’t have time to get out of its way.

  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Campaign art is by the amazing vilefangirl.
> 
> Probably no one cares, but I have to say Phoenicia Labs is a reference to Cadmus Labs, a holdover from my Smallville fandom days that I had to include.
> 
> Also, YES Stephen Colbert actually ran for President in the Marvel Universe. I could not even make this up. So alright, changing him to a Democrat's a pretty big shift, but in a fic where I've turned Norse gods into politicians I think I can get away with that.


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "'So why did you come?' Tony asks. His tone is light, and he’s still looking over at Sif, but Loki can almost feel the air tighten around them."

  
  


  
  
[ ](http://imgur.com/whtvN)

United States Senator Baldr Gard (D-NY) died at 8:40 p.m. yesterday, June 13th, 2001. He was hit by a City taxi cab a few blocks away from his home in the West Village, on his way to dinner with his staff. He was taken to St. Vincent’s Hospital and died shortly after. Gard’s father, Supreme Court Chief Justice Odin Gard, could not be reached for comment. Baldr Gard was 30 years old, and unmarried.

This week in sports...

 

~

 

Loki still doesn’t remember a whole lot about those fuzzy, numbed few days after Baldr died. Here is what he does remember, more or less in order, though it’s possible the actual sequence of events was a little different:

Watching the news. That’s not something he’ll ever forget. The anchorwoman’s name was Janine Esposito. She was wearing a red blazer, and a strand of white pearls looped twice around her neck. Loki was eating a chicken salad sandwich that was a little too heavy on the mayo, and he had the most recent issue of Newsweek open in front of him.

(Loki doesn’t remember what she said, not exactly. He mostly remembers never hating anyone more in his entire life.

Not for long, of course. It wasn’t her fault, that Loki was having lunch in Clark Kerr just then. That his mother was at that moment calling his dorm room, trying again to reach him so that he would find out from her before he found out from anyone else.

It didn’t go that way. And it wasn’t Janine Esposito’s fault. But still.)

Getting on the phone with Frigga at last, finally back in Tony’s apartment. Still breathless from his run across campus. And she was already crying, had been crying for hours. Loki hadn’t even got started yet. There hadn’t been time.

“Your father’s on his way, he's going to bring you back,” Frigga said, Odin was already in the air. “He left this morning, he should be there around four. Thor’s been given leave too.” And Loki stayed on the phone with her, for how long he’s not sure. It could have been five minutes. It could have been hours. And Odin Gard was already airborne, flying across the country to take his youngest son home.

(And Loki stayed on the phone with his mom, because he didn’t know what else to do, and neither did she.)

His dad, stepping out of a featureless rental car. His one eye was bloodshot and he looked fifteen years older. He pulled Loki into a tight, tight hug. And for the first time, the first time Loki could ever remember, Odin wept.

Holding on tight to his dad with the truth of it, of everything, crashing down all around Loki and all he could do was hold on.

Somehow the bags got in the car and he got on a plane. He doesn’t remember if it was a private plane or not, he has no idea.

And the whole time his phone, the Nokia that an adult Loki would remember fondly as being as hardy as a brick and much less attractive, sat silent in his pocket.

He remembers taking it out, flipping it open, checking it was on, checking he hadn’t silenced it.

He hadn’t.

Tony didn’t call.

Loki plotted it out:

• 10 a.m., when Tony could feasibly have heard.

• 11:30, when Tony might have gone home for lunch.

• 5 p.m., when Tony might have come home for the night.

• 7 p.m., when Tony might have come home if he was working late.

• 9 p.m., when Tony might have come home if he was working very, very late.

After 9:30, Loki ran out of explanations.

Still, Tony didn’t call.

 

~

 

Tony called the next day, at around 7:15 p.m.

Loki was sitting in the kitchen with his mom, Odin having just left the room to talk to someone (Loki didn’t know or care who) about funeral dates. Someone had ordered pizza, but it was untouched and probably cold by then. Frigga and Loki were sitting at the table, both of Frigga’s hands knotted tightly in her son’s.

They weren’t talking. They weren’t crying.

Loki felt about three thousand years old. And so angry, and so tired.

His phone went off in his pocket. Loki eased a hand free from his mother’s. She didn’t appear to notice.

 _Incoming Call: Tony_.

Loki looked at it for what could have been a long time.

Then he turned it off.

Too late.

 

~

 

Thor came home. He wrapped them all into his strong arms, smelling of strange air and feeling overwhelmingly real after months of being just a voice on the other end of a watery long-distance connection.

And nothing could stop Frigga from crying, but at least both her sons could hold her while she did.

 

~

 

The funeral was televised.

Odin had his arm around Loki’s shoulders, Frigga tucked into his chest on his other side. Thor stood upright and tall next to Loki, and no one who couldn’t see his face would have guessed that the perfectly turned-out soldier was crying.

Odin’s shoulders were visibly shaking though, his arm tight around Loki, pulling him hard against his side.

Loki didn’t mind.

He closed his eyes. Felt his father next to him, maybe getting older but still stronger than anyone Loki knew, still strong now as he held his wife and son. Heard his mother crying. And Thor.

The funeral was televised. So Loki could hear the murmur of reporters, the clicking of shutters.

He thought of Janine Esposito.

Thor heaved in a deep breath next to him, and Loki opened his eyes. He looked over at Thor, noting absently that he was only an inch or two taller than Loki now. Loki put a hand on Thor’s back and Thor jerked, like the touch had pulled him back from far, far away.

He turned to Loki, and tried to smile.

So the four of them stood there, linked tightly together, and watched as Baldr’s coffin was lowered into the ground.

 

~

 

Loki’s been thinking a lot about Baldr, lately.

Meeting Mayor Rogers is part of it, probably. Talking about his motivation for getting into politics usually makes him think of Baldr anyway, tangled up as the two generally are to the point where Loki can’t honestly say what direction his life might have taken if Baldr had lived.

But of all the things he tries not to think about, that’s at the top of the list.

 

~

 

“Steve Rogers,” Thor says over dinner.

“Boys, please,” Frigga passes the huge bowl of spaghetti to Jane. Frigga is bleary-eyed with jet lag and her hair is still damp from the shower she insisted on taking as soon as she got home (“airplane air, I just have to get rid of all of it”). She looks, as always, breathtakingly lovely. “No shop talk at the table.”

“Mom,” Thor laughs. “We don’t have anything _but_ shop talk.” He’s rumpled from the plane and his leg is stiff, like it always gets after a long flight, but you’d never know how tired he is from his smile.

“It’s true,” Loki says around a mouthful of salad. He swallows heavily. “All previous opinions and interests have been replaced by policy and polling info.” Loki’s the only one at the table who hasn’t been on a plane today, and he’s frankly impressed that any of them are even awake enough to talk about anything.

“How terrible for the rest of us,” Odin says. “Since we have no interest in politics or government at all. What about Mayor Rogers?”

“He’s going to be my running mate,” Thor says.

"You're both so blonde," Jane sighs. "You'll look so weird next to each other."

"That's just offensive," Thor says. "Brunettes have run together for centuries and no one says anything."

"You're just so... American-looking," Jane says.

"We're working that as an asset," Loki says.

"I like the Mayor," Odin announces. "His record is very impressive. He doesn't strike me as a man who's afraid of much, and we could use some more of that on a national level."

"He was concerned that running for VP would make him less useful," Loki says. "Helping people's really important to him. More important than climbing the ladder, or chasing a big paycheck."

Frigga nods thoughtfully. "Rare enough these days. Sometimes seems like all the idealists are gone for good."

"That's what persuaded us, in the end. That he wasn't sure he even wanted the nomination."

"He sounds extremely worthy of it," Odin says. He smiles at Loki, and puts a hand on his son's shoulder. "Good choice, Loki."

"Thanks," Loki says, and accepts another bread roll from Thor.

 

~

 

The period after the funeral was even worse than the time before it. Loki hadn’t thought that could be possible.

Because life went on. Thor had to fly back to Afghanistan after only a week and a half, Odin had to make the meetings he had rescheduled around the funeral, and although Frigga had been granted leave from her work with the National Women’s Law Center, she had only been director for about six months and still had to take constant phone calls and meetings.

Loki was the only one with nothing to do.

Not that he envied his parents their work. He could see with every phone call how the strain of sounding professional was affecting Frigga more and more. It drained her, and she already had no energy to spare. And although the Supreme Court staff was historically the essence of discretion, Loki had heard whispers that Chief Justice Gard’s temper was at a historically volatile high. Having to leave the house, having to talk to others, having to pretend everything was fine even if no one else expected it to be; Loki saw what it did to his parents.

But Loki was completely adrift.

Loki started taking walks. July in DC wasn't exactly temperate, but Loki didn’t mind it. He took long, aimless walks from their Georgetown townhouse to Dupont Circle, along the Potomac to wind around the monuments, taking a moment by the Tidal Basin to look out at the Jefferson Memorial and remember the cherry blossoms.

He wandered past the White House and the Capitol, and farther still, past all the places on the city-in-a-day guides, until he was sweating and exhausted and sunburnt and perfectly lost.

But one night he came back and Frigga was sitting at the foot of the stairs in the front hall.

“Hi baby,” she said, something she hadn’t called him in years and years. “I’m sorry to ask, but next time you go out, could you make sure your phone is charged first?”

And she burst into tears.

It was a long time before he could even get her up off the staircase, and even longer before she would let Loki get out of arm’s reach.

She didn't tell him he had to stop with his walks.

But he did anyway.

 

~

 

 

For weeks the three of them sat out on the balcony of Odin and Frigga's room until late into the night. Loki was again obliged to sit on the floor, ever the extra man.

He didn't like to go out there much anymore. Too many memories. But his parents liked it for just that reason, so he didn’t object. At that point there wasn't much that Loki wouldn't do if it had any chance of making Frigga laugh, or Odin smile.

Which was why, as July drew to a close, Loki started to think that maybe a change was called for. Frigga would tear up just looking at him, and once had visibly flinched when Loki mentioned California. But it would be August soon, and Loki would have to go back to school.

And the thought of leaving them was killing him.

Unless, of course, he didn’t have to.

Georgetown University was within walking distance, after all. He’d have his space, but could still get home whenever he needed to. And when he called and explained things to the admissions office, he found they were very willing to make a few special accommodations given his story (and, no one said but he suspected, his pedigree).

Odin wandered around the house for most of that summer seeming like he was a long, long way away. Until Loki told Odin about his decision to transfer, and his father's focus snapped back into the present moment. His one eye sharp on his youngest son, he seemed for a moment to be struggling against some powerful impulse: to laugh or cry or something else entirely.

But he patted Loki heavily on the shoulder instead.

"That would be wonderful," Odin said simply. "Your mother will be so relieved.” He paused, eye fixed on Loki’s face. “Thank you, Loki. We’d be lost without you."

That night Loki laid on his bed for hours, staring up at the ceiling with his cell phone resting on his stomach.

The month of June: four missed calls from Tony.

July 4: one missed call from Tony.

July 22: one missed call from Tony.

Six weeks. Six calls.

That night, Loki tried to make those numbers mean something. Make them translate into a language he could understand.

But he couldn't. So he went to sleep instead.

The next day he called his dean at UC Berkeley. An hour later, his credits were transferred and he was officially a Hoya.

All things considered, it didn't make him feel anything at all.

 

~

 

Loki sits in the Falcon, composing the draft for an e-mail blast. Just the usual begging for donations. But as it's a week from the Stark Benefit they've decided to offer another two sets of free tickets and airfare to New York as incentive. They’d first made the offer a few weeks ago, and the spike in donations was undeniable. So Tony, ever the voice of moderation, suggested tripling the incentive.

"There's 'more is more,' and then there's ‘more is more is more and then throw a few million at it,’ which is kind of my philosophy in general," he'd said. He'd also offered to auction himself off like one of those date fundraiser things, but Loki thought that might be overkill.

He’s letting Tony pay for the ticket giveaway winners' airfare though. Because there’s no way the campaign should spend that much on something that’s supposed to make them money anyway.

Loki's role in planning the benefit has shrunk to this: the sending of an occasional e-mail, Sif asking a question or two when she reports her numbers to him via phone call.

Which is good. Loki’s got kind of a busy job. And he has another event to plan anyway. Having approved the choice of Mayor Rogers as his VP, Thor wants to make the official announcement immediately.

Loki had figured that’s how Thor would react, so plans were pretty well set up before Thor’s plane even hit the ground yesterday. Not that advance planning is necessarily a guarantee for success. Still, Loki has yet to see the day when his gambles don’t pay off: stopping Thor’s speech tour to go back to New York and announce Rogers as his running mate is already getting positive buzz. Brooklyn is logistically tricky for an event like this, and Valentino Pier in Red Hook borders on being a bad idea due to the transportation issues alone. But Steve Rogers is Red Hook’s favorite son, and they’re expecting a huge crowd of enthusiastic locals. Thor can then attend the Stark Benefit and respond to Tony’s endorsement in person, which can only help his business reputation. Then back out to the Midwest, planting some seeds in the probable swing states that he can build on in the fall.

It’s busy, yeah. But the numbers are looking healthy for where they are right now. And no one’s mentioned Baltimore to Loki in weeks.

Loki puts down his phone and takes a slow sip of his coffee. God, this place is so worth the trip. And the walk's not bad at all. If anything, it's given him a chance to clear his head.

A clear head isn't something he's needed to walk for in a long time. For that, he blames Tony. More specifically, he blames that scene in Sif's apartment. And how Tony is pretending it never happened. Except for how he doesn’t meet Loki’s eyes as often anymore. And has stopped coming by the office every day.

Loki is very aware of both things, though he doesn’t really want to be.

"Mr. Gard," someone says.

Loki look up, and smiles automatically through his surprise. It's a particularly shark-like smile.

"Mr. Ratha. What an unexpected pleasure."

Rajit Ratha, President Norman Osborn's Chief of Staff and Campaign Manager, slides into the seat across from Loki. Loki’s familiar with the type, in how Ratha carries himself and speaks and even sips his coffee: ambition, and confidence, and power. It’s common knowledge that Ratha’s birth as an Indian citizen is the only thing keeping his political ambitions in check. He could run for another position, but he’s taken the route that gets him as close to the Oval Office as possible. It’s a proximity that he seems to enjoy, though an unspoken ‘for now’ dogs every polished, delicately-accented word that drops from his mouth.

Ratha's shadowed by a slim middle-aged man, dressed in a sober black suit. The visible earpiece and way he's casually surveying the Falcon’s customers would suggest that he's much more dangerous than he looks. The way the Falcon’s customers are nervously surveying him back suggests that they can tell.

"Funny, isn't it?" Ratha says. "That we should run into each other in a city this size."

"Funny that we should run into each other in a _country_ this size," Loki says agreeably. "Isn't this a little far North for you?"

Ratha laughs. "Oh, certainly. But the President needed someone to run ahead and make sure everything was set for his visit with the governor next week, and I volunteered. Anything to escape DC in the summer."

Which doesn't explain why Ratha is in the city, 160 miles away from the state capital in Albany. But Loki decides to let it go.

"Glad to see he’s starting to jump into the campaigning,” Loki says instead.

Ratha shrugs. “Chomping at the bit, really. And has been, ever since your brother’s candidacy was announced,” He smiles at Loki. “He likes a challenge.”

Loki salutes him with his cappuccino. “As do we. Occupational hazard, I guess.”

“Or asset,” Ratha says agreeably.

“That too,” Loki says. “So, what would you like to say to me that couldn’t be said in a phone call?”

Ratha grins at him. “Dropping the pretense that this is just a pleasant coincidence so soon? Shame.”

Loki sighs. “I have a busy morning ahead of me. Trust me, otherwise I could do this all day.”

“Yes,” Ratha says sympathetically. “I remember the strain of my first presidential campaign. You must be exhausted.”

“Not at all. It’s exciting work.”

“And so nice that you have your family with you in such a time. Such impressive people, all.”

“Thank you,” Loki says. He has to admit that he has no idea what’s going on. He’s trying not to show it.  

“I knew your father when he was a judge for the D.C. Circuit Court. Yes, I know,” Ratha says, catching a reaction Loki didn't mean to show. “Before you were born, I believe. I was very young then myself, spending most of the time in my internship trying to seem as old and wise as the judges. I was just an assistant for Lila Olson, a district court judge. But sharing a building with the Circuit judges was a daily excitement. Especially knowing, as everyone did, what great things awaited Judge Gard.”

“You were there when—”

“Yes. That very day, in fact,” Ratha sits back, clearly enjoying the close attention. “Not in the courtroom, of course. I heard the commotion, and ran with all the other young staff to see what was happening. Madness. Sheer, bloody madness.”

Loki doesn’t say anything. It’s another pocket of family history that is rarely discussed, and as Loki has only ever known Odin with his black eyepatch he often forgets that his father ever had the use of both eyes. Old photos of Odin seem to be of a total stranger. His parents never talk about it.

It is arguably the incident that first introduced Odin to the public though, beyond DC insiders who knew to look out for a Gard. For a time, reports of the appellate judge who’d been maimed in the middle of a case hearing had been all the nation could talk about. Loki had even caught it a few years ago on one of those “I Love the 80’s” things, the picture of Odin’s bandaged face a shock, even if Loki did know the whole history already.

“My father never mentioned that he knew you.”

Ratha shrugs. “He was a great man even then, why should he ever notice me? I was just a kid. Besides, it was a very busy time for him.”

“He doesn’t say much about it,” Loki admits.

“I’d heard that. I can’t say I’m surprised. After such an ordeal. And knowing that somewhere, Lukov’s still out there. I assume, at least. Given some of the friends he defended, I’m sure he’d have no problem staying safe and hidden.”

Ratha takes a long sip of his coffee.

“Well,” Ratha says, smiling. “Here you made an attempt at directness, and I’ve derailed us completely. I’m so sorry.”

“Not at all,” Loki says, though with a flash of annoyance he thinks Ratha couldn't have picked a better way to throw off Loki's focus. And Ratha probably knows it. “What was it you wanted to discuss?”

“I assume you’re quite busy just now, but how would you feel about a trip to the capital?”

Loki doesn’t know what he was expecting, but it wasn’t that. “The capital? The city you’re so desperate to escape? Former malarial swamp? That capital?”

“Yes, Mr. Gard. That capital. The President is hosting a campaign dinner two weeks from now, and we think it would send a good message if you attended. I’d like to show you around the Oval Office too, introduce you to some people.”

Introduce him to ‘people’?

“Rajit,” Loki says slowly “I can’t go to a fundraising dinner for the president’s campaign. Are you serious?”

Ratha shrugs. “It could be a good opportunity for you, to make some new connections. Surely you don’t want to be running campaigns for your brother for the rest of your career. You should step out of the family shadow, Loki.”

Loki considers him for a long moment.

“This conversation is over,” he says finally. “You’ve wasted a very long trip.”

Ratha, oddly, doesn’t look upset. Or even very surprised. “Don’t worry about it. Like I said, it was worth it just to get up North for a bit. Well, I’ll leave you to your work, then.”

And he’s getting up, leaning forward to shake Loki’s hand. “But do think about it.”

“Not a chance,” Loki says in a friendly way, though the handshake he gives Ratha is less friendly.

“Ah,” Ratha smiles. “Let me take that for you, as I’m on my way out.”

He picks up Loki’s coffee cup and his own before Loki can answer, and keeps smiling.

“A pleasure, Mr. Gard,” and he’s walking away, the suited bodyguard falling into step behind him, obscuring him from view as the pair leave the coffee shop. It doesn’t look like Ratha stops by the trash can before he leaves. Maybe detouring to throw out the cups would spoil his dramatic exit.

Loki watches him go, completely confused.

And he wasn’t even done with his coffee, either. Probably Ratha’s attempt to punish him for his refusal. Or for trying to crush his hand.

Loki sighs, and gets up to order another cappuccino. Politicians. Fucking children, every one of them.

 

~

 

“It would be really cool to see you,” Fenrir said over the phone. “Just before you start at Georgetown, you know? Chihiro’s back already, and Tai and Murphy are starting their internships, so they’re around. It would be awesome if you could visit, for a few days or something.”

“Yeah,” Loki sighed. He was slouched down in Odin’s big armchair in the living room, staring blankly at the picture window opposite. “I’m sorry I left without saying anything man, I—”

“Loki,” Fenrir said firmly. “Stop apologizing. You know you don’t have to.” He paused for a second. “How’re your parents doing?”

A blonde girl jogged by, flashing past the window in a second. An older woman stopped to let her St. Bernard sniff at the young tree just outside their door. Her mouth moved, saying something to the dog that Loki couldn’t make out. Slowly, she and the dog moved on.

“Not good,” Loki said.

“Yeah," Fenrir sighed. “Well, think about it. I’d like to see you, I know other people would too. If you can— if your parents can—”

“I’ll think about it.”

“I ran into Tony yesterday.”

Loki closed his eyes. “Yeah?”

Fenrir didn’t say anything for a second. “You should call him.”

“Yeah?”

“Loki, he’s— I think— shit, I don’t know. He’s a pretty messed-up guy, everyone knows that. But he looked... he didn’t look good. I don’t know when he last got sleep, but he was pretty jittery. And with these crazy bags under his eyes, you know?”

Loki did know. He knew Tony when he hadn’t been getting enough sleep, he knew Tony when Tony was too excited about some combination of wires and circuits to bother eating, he knew Tony when he couldn’t let himself unwind out of fear of what might catch up to him if he slowed down for even a second.

Loki ground the heel of his free hand into his right eye, the other clenching tightly around his cell phone.

“So?” He said, voice rough.

“He looked how you sound, man,” Fenrir laughed a little, nervously.

Loki... wasn’t sure what to do with that.

“It’s not my business,” Fenrir said gently. “I’m just worried about you.”

 

That night, Loki dreamt of Tony.

It wasn’t a long dream. Not much happened.

They were lying in bed, fully clothed but curled up close next to each other. Tony was talking but it sounded faded and distant and totally incomprehensible. Loki wasn’t worried about it, he just smiled and watched Tony gesture expansively, his face alive with the excitement of whatever he was saying. He could feel the weight of Tony on the bed next to him, how it made Loki’s body tip towards his a little closer.

Loki was warm, and comfortable, and happy.

And Tony smiled at him.

Loki woke up with a pit in his stomach, eyes burning.

 

~

 

Cameras flash. Spectators cheer. Thor smiles out at them all, bright and brilliant and looking as at home in front of a cheering crowd as he does in his own living room.

“You know me,” he says to the assembled crowd, who wave campaign signs and smile back at him. “So were any of you surprised by my choice of Steve Rogers as a running mate?" The crowd laughs, some people whopping, a few illegible shouted comments rising above the noise.

A good crowd, Loki notes. With the kind of enthusiasm that should read clearly through the various news cameras covering the event. It's not an accident, of course. Loki had counted on such a reception when he'd picked this location.

But just because it's not a surprise didn't mean Loki can't enjoy being right.

"There aren't many people who you’d want to have your back in a fight in Congress _and_ a fight in a dark alley—" lots of laughter at that "—but hopefully I won’t take Mayor Rogers into too many of either. Still, in choosing him I know I'll have someone who's not afraid of a challenge, who doesn't worry about playing the Washington game. All he cares about is helping those who can't help themselves. He's done it for the people of New York City for eight years, and I know he can do it for the people of the United States of America for the next four."

The crowd goes nuts. Loki nods approvingly, already making notes on his phone for a meeting with the speech writing team later today.

Loki doesn’t have a clear view of Thor from where he’s standing. He has a seat assigned to him, right up front next to Frigga and Odin and Jane, but Loki generally prefers to be up and moving during these kinds of things. As the candidate’s brother, it’s basically unacceptable. But as his campaign manager, Loki’s allowed.

He’s got a spot for himself far to the left of the platform. Out of range of any cameras, but still close enough that he can be reached by any of his staff.

Or by Pepper Potts, it turns out.

"Mr. Gard," She says, looking cool and fresh despite the heat in a perfectly-tailored fawn dress and impressively high heels.

"Miss Potts," Loki says, turning a little away from the podium a little. "Not that it isn't a pleasure to see you, but how did you get back here?"

She smiles, waits for a break in the cheering that wells up in response to something Thor's said, then says, "You'd be amazed what walking with purpose and saying 'Loki's expecting me' will do."

"Hmm. That's probably a hole in security we should address."

"Could be a good idea," she says lightly. "I'll be quick, I don't want to distract you from your work. Mr. Stark wanted me to tell you that he's put together a casual get-together for some local businessmen tonight. Not nearly as elaborate as the benefit next week, but a sort of warm-up for the main event."

Loki nods slowly. "That sounds like a good idea. Though I'm guessing Tony's definition of 'casual' is a little more creative than just a night watching baseball."

"Of course," she says. "We're Giants fans at Stark Tower." Her poker face is truly impressive.

Loki laughs. He likes her, almost instinctively.

"But you're welcome to come," Pepper says. "and Senator Gard, of course. I'm sorry it's such short notice, Mr. Stark just had the idea yesterday."

"Really, that sounds so unlike him," Loki says. "My brother has a dinner appointment with the Mayor and local officials tonight, but," he hesitates for only a split-second, but he's sure Pepper catches it. "I can make it."

"Excellent. Stark Tower, the fifty-seventh floor. Just give your name to security and they'll send you up. And let's say, ten o'clock?"

"That sounds great," Loki says, though he's not sure he means it. "I'll be there. Thank you."

"Not at all, Mr. Gard."

"You can call me Loki," He says. "It can get confusing otherwise, with all the Gards running around this campaign."

"Alright. I'll see you tonight, Loki."

Loki watches her go, completely stable and comfortable in those stilettos. A skill some women have that Loki has never understood, and has been ever grateful that he's never needed to cultivate himself.

He turns back to the speech, unease tickling up his spine now. It's important that someone from the campaign go to an event like this, and Loki's the best person for it if Steve and Thor are both busy elsewhere. But he can't say he's looking forward to another social call at Stark Tower.

The last one is still vividly burned into his brain.

"So here he is," Thor says, leaning into the microphone and smiling, looking happy and alive and so presidential, like he was always meant to be here, doing this. "The next Vice President of the United States, Steve Rogers!"

Steve comes up on the platform, and Thor pulls him into a hug that’s almost comical given the size difference between them. Loki stands at the fringes and out of the spotlight, arms crossed and deep in thought.

 

~

 

It took time for Loki to work up the courage to ask his mother about flying to Berkeley for a few days.

When he finally did, she looked at him steadily and put down her book.

“Having second thoughts, Loki?”

“No, Mom,” Loki sighed. This was exactly what he was worried would happen.

“Because it’s not too late, we can talk to your Dean at Berkeley, nothing’s set in stone—”

“I want to go to Georgetown,” Loki said firmly, sitting down on the couch next to her. “I want to stay here, I swear. I just want to... to see my friends, before I do.”

“Ah,” Frigga smiled a small, knowing smile. “Closure.”

Loki nodded.

“And Tony?”

The knot of anxiety that Loki’d been trying to reason out of his stomach for days raged to life again.

“If I see him,” he said neutrally.

“Loki,” Frigga said gently. “You need to talk to him.”

“I don’t see why,” Loki tried not to snap. “He’s made it pretty clear he doesn’t need to talk to me.”

“Maybe he doesn’t. But you need to at least find out why.”

Loki shrugged, sinking down into the couch and looking away.

Neither of them say anything for a bit.

“It might feel like strength,” Frigga said slowly. “To put up some kind of implacable, unscalable wall and never budge. But that’s not being strong. Not really.”

His throat went tight, and _shit_ he’d really had enough of breaking into tears over the smallest, stupidest things lately.

“I don’t...” he stopped, paused, gave himself a second to keep his voice level. Something he’d got good at over the past two months. “I don’t know how else to be.”

“Oh, baby,” Frigga’s eyes were shining too, and Loki felt even worse, because it had been a _good_ day before this, or what passed for one now. “I know. But it’s important that you try. Or you’ll regret it. It shouldn’t end like this between you two.”

Loki didn’t say anything. When it became clear that he wasn’t _going_ to say anything, Frigga leaned forward and pressed a kiss against the side of his head (he’d got too tall for her to kiss the top of his head anymore). She picked up her book again and opened it without saying another word.

He sat next to her on the couch for a while. When he got up again he didn’t feel much better. But he’d at least made something close to a decision.

 

~

 

“I understand your brother doesn’t golf, Mr. Gard.”

Loki tries, he tries so hard not to roll his eyes. But he can’t help it if his tone has a decidedly mocking lilt to it. “Well, he does love to stand outside for hours at a time, especially when it’s rainy and wet and he can’t use his walking stick. But no, he’s not a golfer.”

Apparently referring to Thor’s bad leg is poor form, because CEO of Aquaree Enterprises Marc Kyle flushes a little.

Sif, beautiful and deadly on Loki’s arm, smiles winningly at Kyle. “He’s an avid watcher, though. You can always tell when Thor’s at one of the majors because he gets golf rage. Hard to miss the big blonde man standing on his chair and screaming about par five eagles.”

The CEOs assembled around them laugh. Loki grimaces.

Sif apparently decides that for the good of all, Loki needs to vanish. “Loki, would you get me another glass of wine, please?”

“Of course,” Loki says, not sure if he should be annoyed or relieved.

Admittedly, it could be worse. Despite Loki’s skepticism at Pepper’s use of the word, the vibe in Tony’s apartment is... casual. Only about fifteen guests, and the food is limited to pizza and salad. The pizza is still in the boxes too, unapologetically stacked next to the drinks table. Which is fairly well stocked, and with a lot more imagination than dinner. Loki looks at the bottles in front of him, mystified.

“I say just go with the fanciest label,” Tony says from behind him. “If it’s embossed and covered with gold leaf, it’s worth drinking.”

Loki turns. Tony has barely spoken to him at all tonight, certainly not without Sif also as part of the conversation. It’s more of the new status quo: Tony not meeting Loki’s eye and apparently happiest to be with him when there are at least two other people in the room. But here he is, one hand tucked into the pocket of his deep blue suit jacket, left unbuttoned over a black shirt. No tie, but buttoned almost all the way up his throat. He looks comfortable, though. And Loki thinks it’s been awhile since Tony’s looked at him this steadily.

“I usually pick by the font,” Loki says.

“Risky move, risky move,” Tony says, stepping in closer to peer at the bottles. “But hey, as good a strategy as anything. Wine’s not really my drink.” True, he is holding a tumbler that’s mostly just ice now. Scotch, Loki guesses. Maybe whiskey.

But he doesn’t really have anything to base that on. Tony at nineteen years old generally drank whatever was available and already open and not likely to cause blindness. And that last one was negotiable. Loki doesn’t know what he’s into now, if his palate has become more refined or something.

“Mine either,” Loki says. “Sif wants a refill. Though I think she just wanted me out of the way so I wouldn’t shame her.”

“Well, get her a glass of some shitty pinot and that’ll happen anyway,” Tony picks up a bottle and offers it to Loki. “Muscadet, modest, light, fruity. I gave her a bottle last week, it’s a safe bet.”

Loki takes the bottle. “Not your drink, huh?”

Tony shrugs. “Pepper talks at me a lot, and sometimes something slips through. Despite my best efforts. Not having anything for yourself?”

“I don’t drink when I’m working,” Loki says.

“This isn’t work, this is play,” Tony smiles, wide and easy.

Loki turns his back to him. And focuses intently on pouring the muscadet into Sif’s glass. “It’s work,” he says shortly. Loki’s trying to calculate how much Tony’s had to drink already, but he doesn’t _seem_ drunk. Except for where he hasn’t used that tone with Loki since... well, for a while.

“Right,” Tony says from behind him. “I forgot, you don’t have a ‘play’ setting.”

“Not until November,” Loki turns back around. Tony’s not smiling anymore, but his eyes lock on Loki’s as soon as Loki turns back around.

“And after then?”

“A nap,” Loki says. “A long, long nap. And I’ll figure the rest out later.”

Tony makes a disapproving tutting noise. “No plan? No elaborate schemes? Watch out Loki, you’re like, totally shattering the myth right now. I feel so lied to.”

Loki swirls the glass of wine in his hand.

“So how’s it going?” Tony asks. “With Wall Street’s best and brightest. Eating out of the palm of your hand yet?”

“This isn’t really my area,” Loki says.

“No, Sif’s got you covered,” Tony nods over at Sif’s knot of admirers. “And woe betide the Fortune 500 shmuck who doesn’t toe the line.”

“That’s basically her battle cry.”

“So why did you come?” Tony asks. His tone is light, and he’s still looking over at Sif, but Loki can almost feel the air tighten around them.

“Big fish, big bait,” Loki says. He clears his throat. “Status counts to these guys. My being here shows we’re taking them seriously. At least until Thor has the time to reinforce that idea by talking to them himself. I’ve got the name and I’ve got rank and proximity to the candidate, so they get the illusion that they’ve got somebody high up in the campaign on their side.”

“Right,” Tony says. But it doesn’t sound like he’s really listening.

Loki takes a moment to really look at his face, while Tony’s attention is elsewhere. Eyes tracing the crow’s feet forming at the corners of Tony’s eyes, the soft smile lines that’ve been laid in around his expressive mouth. Not the face of a kid, not at all. But still so like the kid that Loki had known that his insides twist a little just looking at him. And he can admit that. There’s no point in denying it.

He kind of wishes he was drinking now.

Tony turns back to the drink table and refills his glass (it was scotch after all). “And everything’s all set for Friday.”

“Hard to believe,” Loki says. “Just two days away, now. Got your speech ready?”

“Nah, I thought I’d just get up there and let the muse take me,” Tony says seriously over the mouth of his tumbler before he takes a sip. “All my best speeches start that way.”

“What about the ones where you end up naked in the pool shouting about how much you love supermodels? How do they start?”

“That was _one time,”_ Tony says, all mock-outrage. “And it was one of my most popular performances.”

“Especially with the models.”

“Want a tour of the place?”

The question comes out of nowhere, and Loki doesn’t have the advance warning to control his response: his eyebrows shoot up, and he’s sure he looks laughably surprised.

“What?”

“Yeah, it’s just a comfy little nook, but it’s home,” Tony says easily. He takes another sip of his scotch. “I’ve got a great lab downstairs too. All my cars are in the garage in Malibu,” he looks up at Loki and then away, but presses on “but parking in this city is such a joke there wasn’t a lot of point in bringing any. Still, got tons of toys.”

“Gadgetry isn’t really my—”

“Yeah, I know,” Tony drains the glass in one go, pressing a fist against his chest as he coughs. “Ugh, I always forget that that’s not a good idea.”

Now it’s Loki who has to look away, back at Sif and her CEOs, at the other people sitting and chatting. A group in the corner has started a game of poker or something, playing for cufflinks and glittering earrings that are probably worth more than a ticket to the Stark Benefit, two days from now.

Loki should say no. A little more than a week ago he would have. But he has to admit that the look on Tony's face, his voice coming out taut and low in the darkness of Sif's basement... It's been nagging at the back of Loki's mind ever since, some knot of worry and curiosity called up by Tony bolting out of there as soon as the lights came on. But thanking him, thanking _Loki_ , before he did.

It doesn't make any sense.

But he wants to know what's going on. So what the hell. He’ll take a chance.

“Okay,” he says.

“Okay?” Tony is still recovering from his down-in-one experience, apparently, and blinks at Loki.

“Okay, give me the tour.”

“Huh. Yeah, okay,”

Tony was clearly not expecting Loki to say yes, Loki notes with some satisfaction. But he turns and leads the way through a hallway at the back of the big, glass-walled living room. Loki follows without saying anything. He takes the glass of wine with him just to have something to do with his hands— he suspects that Tony is holding on to his tumbler of melting ice for a similar reason.

            “So, well,” Tony gestures around them, and leads the way up a set of circular stairs. “This is all pretty new, Stark Tower didn’t have anywhere liveable in it really until about, I don’t know, five months ago. But Pepper said New York real estate was a good investment for some incomprehensible reason.”

            “Lots of stairs,” Loki notes.

            “I’m not a huge fan of elevators,” Tony says. “Okay, here’s the study-slash-library-slash-man cave. Well, Happy calls it that, but only when Pepper can’t hear him. Since she uses it more than any of us. JARVIS, lights.”

            _< <Yes, sir,>> _a cool, cultured English voice seems to issue from the walls around them. Loki jumps.

“Yeah,” Tony says. “Sorry, house AI, should’ve given you a heads-up.”

When he recovers, Loki takes in the soft warmth of the room, low ceiling dotted with pleasant yellow and orange Tiffany-esque lamps that illuminate but still leave the room fairly dim. There are bookshelves, and a few books left out on some of the low tables clustered around comfortable-looking armchairs. It all looks so completely un-Tony, Loki is temporarily thrown.

But he’s not easy to distract for long. “You live on the fifty-seventh floor, Tony. How can you not like elevators?”

“I don’t walk from the ground up,” Tony says airily. “I use elevators. I just don’t use the ones in my own apartment. It’s not like, a phobia, please.” But he turns away from Loki just a hair too quickly, and walks further into the room.

Loki follows him, turning the pros and cons of what he wants to say over in his mind until—

“Are you going to tell me what’s going on?” There, it’s out of his mouth, and it can’t be unsaid. Nerves flutter low in his stomach for a moment and he tries to ignore them.

Tony turns back to face him slowly.

“With what?” But he’s smiling, or starting to smile. And it’s a smile that hits Loki hard, because he hasn’t seen that one in _years_ , and he’d thought (before this campaign even started, before he saw Tony again) that Tony couldn’t smile that way anymore.

“Don’t fuck with me,” Loki says, because he’s come to terms with the fact that he’s _always_ going to be angry around Tony. Most of the time he’s able to keep it tucked into the back of his mind. But most of the time Tony isn’t smiling at him like that.

“Alright, alright,” Tony says, but the smile doesn’t dim much. He pauses for a moment, and steps forward to set his tumbler down on one of the end tables just to Loki’s right. The move puts him closer to Loki, closer to Loki than... close enough for Loki to want to step back because it’s too much, suddenly.

He doesn’t. He’s not a big believer in retreating. But his fingers are tight now around Sif’s wine glass. He’s probably warming it up too, she’ll give him shit for it later.

“I’m not sure how to talk about it,” Tony says. Calmly, evenly, like he’s talking about the weather. “All this—” he gestures around them without looking away from Loki “—aside, I’m—”

“All what?” Loki says. Hating, _hating_ how he can’t trace the intensity behind it, whether it’s anger or the proximity or something else.

“Guest lists,” Tony says, sliding both hands into the pockets of his suit jacket. “Polling figures. Constituents and strategies and, you know, the whole circus you’ve got going here.”

Loki considers being offended at having his life’s work referred to as a ‘circus,’ but he can admit it’s not entirely inaccurate.

“Apart from all that,” Tony goes on. “I’m not sure how to talk to you. I tried once, and it didn’t work out so well.”

Loki’s eyes narrow. “And that’s _my_ fault.”

“See, there you—” Tony breaks off, no longer smiling. “No. Look, it’s not your fault. Shockingly, I’m not trying to start a fight here. But hey, here’s an idea: if you want me to open up and share, get around the circle and sing, whatever would set your mind at ease about a moment of vulnerability that clearly you can’t just let slide, maybe _don’t_ immediately pull the Ice King act with me.”

“You’re the one who’s all about the act, Tony,” Loki says. “I’m just trying to keep up.”

“Doing a great job, babe,” Tony smiles again, one with a hard edge to it. “Leaving me in your dust here. Because I can fool all of the people some of the time, but you _—_ you’ve got it down to an art form. Stunning, actually. You don’t even know who _you_ are anymore, do you?”

“Sure,” Loki says. He wants to grab Tony and _shake_ him, and the impulse is so strong he has to clench his hands into fists to stop himself from just doing it. “You’d like to cast me as the lost boy, wouldn’t you? Makes it a little easier to sleep at night, I bet. Or is that a little tricky for you, what with the whole pitch-black thing?”

“I never sleep in the dark, it’s—” Tony cuts himself off, jaw working furiously for a second.

He looks up at Loki, the warm yellow light of the room so soft over his face.

It reminds Loki, with an unexpected and deep ache, of light from the streetlamp outside his parent’s bedroom, filtering over the edge of a balcony and catching the reflected glimmer of a beer bottle.

“How does this keep happening?” Tony says. His voice is soft, soft enough for Loki to think that maybe he’s thinking something along the same lines. “I know you won’t believe me, so I might as well say it: I really never mean for it to go this way.”

“You never do,” Loki says. Anger’s shifted into something darker, something deeper and trembling and Loki’s throat is alarmingly tight. Tight enough that he doesn’t think the next thing he says should be able to slip out, but it does, it does too quickly for him to stop it: “You never did.”

“I—” Tony’s mouth drops open. “Is that what—”

He reaches out for Loki’s arm, but Loki’s already stepping back.

“It’s not important,” Loki says, raising both hands in a peace gesture, though he’s pretty sure that if Tony actually touches him he might have to hit him. “It really, really doesn’t matter.”

“You think so?” Tony’s angry now, if he wasn’t before, but he doesn’t try to touch Loki again. “God, you really have stuck your head so deep in the sand, you don’t even—”

“I’m taking Sif her wine,” Loki says. He turns away, but pauses before stalking out of the room. “You’re right. Maybe it would be better if we stuck to my ‘circus.’”

Tony doesn’t say anything.

Loki walks out of the room, not letting himself look back to see the look on Tony’s face.

 

When he finally hands Sif the now-warm glass of muscadet, she opens her mouth to say something, then looks at his face.

Instead of whatever she was going to say, she links her arm through his, giving it a squeeze. And turns back to the pixieish CFO of some Swiss bank, taking over the bulk of the conversation despite the CFO’s winning attempts to pull Loki into their discussion of the NRA and lobbyist groups.

Tony doesn’t come back to the room for a while.

Loki hates himself for noticing.

 

~

 

Loki didn’t ask Fenrir to come with him to Tony’s apartment, mostly because he didn’t have to. After dinner with Chihiro, Tai, and their roommate Lilah, Fenrir had just fallen into step beside Loki without talking about it. And had taken up most of the conversational burden too, going on about a movie he had been an extra in the week before, one where he’d gotten all dressed up like a French peasant.

Loki hadn’t told him what he was going to do after dinner. So there was no real way Fenrir could have known. But he obviously did, since he followed Loki to just under the gold-and-marble facade of Tony’s apartment building without saying a word about it.

“So,” Fenrir said, as the doorman nodded Loki through. “Want me to come up?”

Loki wasn’t sure what he had done to deserve a friend like Fenrir. He tried for a smile, and clapped a hand on Fenrir’s shoulder.

“Maybe to the door?”

“Will do,” Fenrir said, and went back to talking about the period-appropriate mud he’d had caked all over him for a solid twelve hours.

Loki rode up the elevator in silence. He still wasn’t sure what he was going to say to Tony. Wasn’t sure what he was feeling anymore about any of this. It was so _weird_ to be back, to be on campus and with his friends, when it felt like years since he’d been here. It felt like Odin had come to pick him up and take him away from here years ago, and it had only been two months.

He had lain awake for more than a few nights, picturing what he might say to Tony. What Tony might say back. Different scenes, different tones, different endings, but all of them making it impossible for him to get to sleep.

Most of these scenarios had started with Loki standing in front of the door, and Tony answering it. That had seemed safe to assume.

In no scenario had he imagined the throb of bass coming from Tony’s apartment, the muffled noises of people shouting and, just as he and Fenrir came up to the door, the sound of something large and obviously breakable shattering from inside.

Loki checked his wristwatch. It was just a little after 7 p.m.

“On second thought,” Fenrir said carefully. “Maybe I will come in with you. Unless you want to leave?”

Loki thought about it. His first impulse was definitely to run. To get out of there, to write the whole thing off, to just leave it as it was.

But what his mom said had stuck in his mind. It wasn’t right to leave things like this. And maybe... maybe learning a little forgiveness would be good for him.

“No,” he said finally. “No, I’ve got to do this.”

“Okay,” Fenrir said. “I’ll stick with you until we find him, then I’ll go hang out by the door until you’re ready to go, okay?”

“Okay,” Loki said. “Thanks.”

Fenrir tried the handle, and when it proved to be unlocked, opened the door.

The sound crashed out around them and into the hall. The apartment was big by any standards— Tony Stark was hardly going to spend his student years in some shabby dorm or studio apartment, after all— but it was crammed with people. The music was so loud that Loki couldn’t hear what Fenrir said as they stepped into the apartment, even though Fenrir shouted it right against his ear (“Holy shit,” Loki thought it might have been). And everyone was moving, dancing, shouting, making out, propped up against the walls and each other, stumbling and laughing and all completely, obviously wasted.

It was the biggest, loudest group he’d been in for months. His first reaction was one of absolute terror. Going from months of funereal silence to... to _this..._

Loki stood there for a moment and tried to wait the panic out, until someone charged into him from behind and almost took him off his feet.

He turned quickly, but the guy, big and easily in his late 20s, grinned apologetically at him and moved on without saying anything. Not that Loki could have heard it if he had. Not that Loki even recognized him.

Not that Loki recognized _anyone_ , he thought. Scanning the room, he was expecting to see a familiar face or two. Even the people Tony liked who _really_ partied, people Loki couldn’t keep up with even if he wanted to, none of them seemed to be there.

At first glance anyway. Maybe he’d see more of them as he forced his way inside.

With that, he started to move through the crowd, looking back a few times to see if Fenrir was still with him. No one paid Loki much attention, since he was obviously younger than most of the partiers and was careful not to project any interest in anyone around him. Not that they would have noticed even if he did.

Terror having passed, he was slipping quickly and easily into anger. What the hell was this? Who were these people? Where the hellwas Tony?

 _What the fuck,_ _Tony,_ Loki thought, coming too near the speakers set up by the TV (too big to be the ones that had been there in June, right?) and wincing as the wall of sound became almost a physical attack. _What the fuck is going on here?_

He registered that Fenrir was tugging on his sleeve, and turned. Fenrir pointed to a seat in the corner, at the outside edge of the dance floor.

Tony.

And yeah, he looked terrible. He was sitting alone, slouched way down in one of his big armchairs and looking out at the crowd through half-lidded eyes. He hadn’t shaved in what looked like days, and there was a beer bottle held loosely in his right hand, another three or four lying at his feet.

He didn’t appear to notice Loki pushing his way through the crowd towards him. He didn’t appear to notice Loki until after Loki had been standing in front of him for a full second. Then his eyes slowly slid up, up to Loki’s face.

It was a strange moment. Despite this, the party, the six calls in six weeks, the bottles at his feet and the music giving him a headache, Loki suddenly wanted to drop to his knees in front of Tony. He wanted to wrap his arms around him, bury his face in his shoulder and just... _two months_ , two months missing someone he’d only known for a two years, but the time without him felt like an eternity.

And then Tony smiled. It didn’t reach his eyes. Any desire to touch him completely vanished.  

Loki leaned down and took the beer bottle from Tony’s hand. He dropped it amongst the others piled around the chair, ignoring Tony’s frown. The bottle was empty anyway.

Tony nodded and got up, looking at Loki for a second and then moving away, waving for Loki to follow him. Tony weaved through the crowd, accepting pats on the back and resisting wobbly drunken attempts to pull him into the dancing with practiced ease. Loki trailed behind him, following him up the stairs and into Tony’s bedroom.

When the door closed behind Loki it cut out a lot of the noise.

“Soundproofing,” Tony noted, walking over to the bathroom. “Got it installed, it’s been a real lifesaver.” he left the door open, and Loki watched as he ran the sink, splashed some water on his face and filled a paper cup with it. He took a long drink. Then he burped.

“So,” Tony said. He came back out again, wiping water out of his eyes. “Hi.”

Loki didn’t say anything.

Tony looked at him. He tucked his hands into the back pockets of his jeans, arms looking long and tanned in the black tank top he was wearing. Only Tony could spend a whole summer tinkering in a lab and still look like he’d spent the whole time surfing.

Of course, Loki actually had no idea what Tony was doing with his summer. The thought turned his spine to ice.

“Want something to drink?” Tony offered after a while. “Looks like you could use it, and we’ve got plenty.”

“Tony,” Loki said carefully. “What’s going on here?”

Tony shrugged and smiled, that same cold smile that he’d been wearing downstairs. “If you need me to explain it to you, you’ve been out of college for too long, man.”

“Right,” Loki said. “Right.”

“Honestly,” Tony took his hands out of his pants pocket and stretched, knotting his hands together and pulling them above his head. “I _think_ when it started, it was to celebrate Obie naming me Chairman of the Board... but honestly, that was a while ago, I’ve sort of lost track of it.”

“Chairman...”

“Well, maybe not Chairman,” Tony amended. “Something. Whatever.”

“You’ve been hosting a party for... days?”

“Week, maybe,” Tony admitted. “Maybe more.”

“What,” Loki said carefully. “The fuck is wrong with you?”

Tony put his hands back in his pockets. His spine was one easy fluid curve, his shoulders relaxed and loose. But his eyes were sharp and hard, and Loki thought maybe he wasn’t as drunk as he seemed.

“You want the short list, or the long one?” Tony said lightly. “On second thought, why don’t you tell me? I bet you’ve got tons of ideas, bright kid like you.”

Loki gaped. But he didn’t need long to recover. “I’ve got a few ideas, Tony, yeah. I’ve had plenty of time to think about it. Two months. The list’s got pretty long.”

“Two months,” Tony said, sounding impressed. “Hey, doesn’t it just feel like yesterday?”

Loki’s whole body went rigid.

“What?”

“Feels like yesterday,” Tony repeated. “Doesn’t it? June 13th. I get out of bed, I go to work, I come home— No wait, there was something about that day, what was it, it’s on the tip of my tongue...”

Loki couldn’t say anything. He didn’t think he could even move.

“Right,” Tony said. He leaned in, staring up into Loki’s face. “Right, that was the day that you left. Knew I’d get there eventually.”

Loki’s tongue came unfrozen. Through the roaring in his ears, he heard himself say: “Well that’s encouraging, I was starting to worry. Lost a few braincells after I left, I guess.”

“You left,” Tony said, like Loki hadn’t said anything. “You left, and didn’t say a word. No note, no nothing. I come back, and you’re gone. Your stuff, your clothes, everything. Gone.”

“Baldr,” Loki said, and it ripped its way out of him, he felt like he should have been spitting blood just saying it, “died.”

“Yeah,” Tony said. “Saw the funeral on TV. You guys looked nice. Thor’s taller than I thought he’d be.”

He still had some water in his hair, little beads of it at his temples and caught in his eyebrows. Not that it helped him look any better—up close, the bags in his eyes were nothing short of astounding. There was a bruise fading just at the corner of his jaw, mostly covered up by stubble.

“You miserable little fuck,” Loki whispered. “What did you just say to me?”

“There we go,” Tony said, hands coming out of his pockets, all pretense of relaxation dropping away. “Now we’re getting to the part where you tell me ‘what the fuck’ is wrong with me, right? Because I’m looking forward to that. After two months, _two months_ , where I don’t hear anything from you, I’m so glad that when you just show uphere, again without calling or writing or anything, we can start right in on what the fuck’s the matter with _me_.

“Because you know, Loki,” Tony wasn’t smiling anymore. “That’s what I’ve been asking myself. For _two months_. What is so _wrong_ with me, that you would just vanish without saying a goddamn thing.”

“Baldr _died_ ,” Loki hissed.

“Yeah, I know,” Tony said. “What I want to know is, why you couldn’t pick up the phone. I was _losing my mind_ —” Tony made a little movement with his arms, like he just barely could keep himself from touching Loki “—and I didn’t know how to—I didn’t know what to do. It was all so much, and I’m not— I’ve never _had_ anything like this before, and it was freaking me out. I didn’t know how to—”

“You freaked out,” Loki said.

“Loki, you gotta understand—” It looked like the fight had gone out of Tony. He mostly just looked tired, eyes glassy and shining with tears or fatigue or alcohol, no way to tell which.

“I just want to get this right,” Loki said calmly. “My oldest brother dies, and you freak out because, what? Your boyfriend’s had a death in the family, and you don’t know what to do?”

Tony looked at him, still angry but with such misery written all over him. Loki couldn’t stop.

“You couldn’t call me until days later. You didn’t even know to do that. What, you wanted a written invitation? You wanted me to make time in taking care of my mother, my father, Thor— yeah he is pretty tall, you’re right, never noticed that before, _asshole_ — to give you a call? To tell you how to fucking _act like you love me?”_

Shit, _shit_ , it hadn’t been said before. Not for real, not when one of them wasn’t coming, not like this. And Tony got it, his jaw dropped open a little and he looked like Loki had _gutted_ him.

“Because I’m not the one who should have been helping you,” Loki spat, though he knew that his voice was starting to quiver, _fuck_ , and he could feel his eyes start to burn. “You’re not the one who should have _needed_ help. But I guess I shouldn’t have been surprised. It’s always about you, Tony. It’s always about how youfeel and what youneed, and a universe without Tony Stark at the center of it just doesn’t fucking compute, does it?”

“That’s not—” Tony tried to say.

“Yeah, yeah I think it is. But you know what, it makes sense. Of course you thought I should have put aside the time to talk to you. Because you wouldn’t get it, would you? That my mother needed me, that my father needed me, that my _family_ needed me. That’s not something you’ve ever had, so how could you ever get it?”

Loki stopped, heaving in a breath.

After a shocked, shuddering moment, Tony’s lip curled.

“Oh, I get it,” he said. Low, soft, an intimate near-purr to it. “I get that finally, _finally_ , you’re not the third wheel any more. Mom and Dad need you? No wonder you couldn’t pick up the phone, you were probably just so _happy_ to finally be important. So _happy_ that you weren’t the forgotten son anymore, that with Baldr out of the way you could—”

Loki’d never hit anyone before. He wasn’t expecting the pain, he wasn’t expecting how numbness bit into every bone in his right hand, when his fist crashed across Tony’s cheek and sent him reeling to the ground.

Tony looked up at him, hand up at his cheek. He had tears in his eyes and his chest was heaving. Loki didn’t think it was all due to the punch.

“Wow,” Tony said. He didn’t try to get up. “Guess I touched a nerve.”

Loki cradled the hand against his stomach, wincing as he flexed the fingers a little. The numbness in his bones was replaced by pain lancing over his knuckles, a couple of which were split open.

“Loki,” Tony said. “I didn’t mean—”

“Yeah?” Loki looked down at him, eyebrows raised. “I’m sure you didn’t. Bye, Tony. Enjoy the party.”

And he turned around, and left Tony there. Left him lying on the floor, hand folded over his cheek. Left him in the room where Loki had slept for _weeks_ , where he’d— where they’d—

Fenrir was waiting for him at the bottom of the stairs, looking supremely unimpressed with the drunken insanity going on around him. He looked up at Loki, and his eyes went wide.

Loki shook his head at him. “Let’s get out of here,” he said, but so low that there was no way Fenrir could have heard it.

Still, Fenrir put his arm around Loki’s shoulders, and steered him outside. Which was good, as fucking tears were blurring Loki’s vision so badly that after a little while he couldn’t see where he was going at all.

“Shit,” Loki hissed, pressing his aching hand tight against his stomach. “Shit, _shit.”_

They left Tony’s apartment. No one noticed, or would have cared if they did.

  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Wow, this one's only 11k. Sorry to give you such a tiny update, guys.
> 
> extra thanks to seizure7 for her betability with this chapter! Artwork is as always by the amazing vilefangirl. 
> 
> I had no actor in mind for Baldr when I was writing him, and only came up with Chris Pine after vilefangirl offered to make the glorious piece of art for this chapter. For some reason that made me a lot more emotional about his death. Sorry for killing you off, Chris Pine! I didn't know I was doing it at the time!
> 
> Another note that probably only I care about: Rajit Ratha is a character in the Amazing Spiderman movie, who was originally based on Nels Van Adder from the comics. Who was Osborn's henchman then too, though more into Green Goblining than running for office. As far as I know, anyway.


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The ballroom in the Ritz is almost glowing with warm orange light. Plush rust-colored carpet covers the floor, the part at least that isn’t laid with hardwood panels for dancing. Paper lanterns in shades of crimson and saffron dangle from the ceiling, and every table and wall is decked with cloth in shades of gold.
> 
> “Because nothing says ‘we’re the 1%’ like solid gold decorations,” Loki had said when he’d first arrived.
> 
> “Trust me. With the crowd we’re getting tonight, that’s a good message to project,” Sif had said.

  
[](http://imgur.com/SqBod6F)

His name is Phil Coulson, and Loki doesn’t like him much. 

“So I see on your website that you are,” Loki pauses to look at the screen, “‘pretty awesome.’”

Coulson shrugs, “My work speaks for itself.”

“It speaks pretty loudly,” Slip Sleipnir says from her perch on top of one of Loki’s low filing cabinets. She flips through Coulson’s resume which is, admittedly, impressive. 

“But you’ve never worked on a political campaign before,” Loki says. “Not in a leadership role, at least.”

Slip frowns at him. 

“From what I’ve seen of the campaign you’ve got going here,” Coulson gestures around at the office with one hand, the motion exposing the flash of a tattoo that curves around his wrist. “You’re more about what people can do than their credentials.”

“So what can you do?” Loki asks. 

Coulson looks at Slip, who nods encouragingly. 

“Getting out the vote,” Coulson says. “You need to do it, and just knocking on doors or phone banking won’t raise your numbers enough to topple Osborn.”

“So?”

“So, we’ve been talking about ways to help out the door-knockers and phone-callers, to get staff in the right place to really influence people. Social media, apps, that kind of thing.”

“It’s a new battlefield in political elections,” Slip says. “And the faster we learn how to fight in it, the better our chances against Osborn will be.”

“And that depends on who you have on board,” Coulson says. 

“People like you?” Loki asks, not bothering to check the skepticism in his voice. 

“People like me,” Coulson agrees. He doesn’t seem nettled by Loki’s attitude; if anything it looks like he’s enjoying it. “And I can give you a list of a few other names. Good guys, too, from Facebook, Google, Twitter— people who eat, sleep, and breathe this stuff.”

Loki turns the idea over in his head. “Maria Hill’s campaign against Osborn tried to do something similar,” he says. “The system crashed a week before the polls opened.”

“Ah,” Coulson’s eyes light up. “Galaga. Yeah, I know a few vets from that program. We’re working on it. And I think we can do better. But as a teaser,” he bends and pulls out a StarkPad tablet from his backpack (a _backpack_ , honestly). “Take a look at this.”

Loki accepts the tablet. It’s open on what looks like a map program, with bars of names and numbers on the right side, and little dots in three colors studding the map section. Loki peers at the screen. 

“What is this?”

Coulson leans forward in his chair. “That’s Pataskala, a town in Licking County, Ohio. From West Broad Street down to Mill Street Avenue. You’ve got statistical info on the region and the people in it here,” he indicates the area on the screen, “And those little dots are potential Gard supporters, confirmed Gard supporters who are registered to vote, or active and potential volunteers. The app runs through Facebook, and it can be downloaded by every field director in your national network.”

Loki taps some of the dots, looking at the names that pop up, zooming out of the map to see more of Pataskala, zooming in until he’s looking at only the block between Township Road and Hazletown-Etna Road Southwest. 

“It’s still pretty rough,” Coulson sighs. “We’ve inputted your voter data for most of Ohio and a few chunks of Iowa, but we’ll need a lot more manpower and support to get the programming for the rest of the swing states in the shape I’d like to see them. And we’re going to make sure that this program is much stronger than Galaga. A quarter of the staff I want to hire will be some of the country’s top hackers.”

“ _Hackers_?” 

“Well, yeah,” Coulson says, like it’s obvious. “Who better to find out the program’s weaknesses so we can fix them way before November?”

Loki looks back down at the tablet, then sighs and hands it over. “You make a compelling argument. Alright, You’re on.”

Coulson smiles and Slip stands up to offer him her hand. 

“Welcome to the team,” Slip says as he takes it. “Let’s go visit the nice people in HR, and get you all set up.”

Loki barely has time to close out of Coulson’s home website before she’s back. 

“So,” Slip says, closing the door behind her. “What was that all about?”

“What was what all about?” Loki asks, pointedly rifling through some papers on his desk to show how extremely busy and important he is. “I hired him, didn’t I?”

“No, _I_ hired him,” Slip says. “And brought him to see you, because it was a courtesy and I thought you’d be excited.”

“All this internet stuff is ridiculous. I don’t see why we can’t run this campaign by talking to _real people_ , it’s worked out okay for the past couple of centuries.”

Slip’s eyebrows shoot up. “Okay, as a history buff and infamous geek for Joe Trippi, I know you know better than that. Besides, this app is still about talking to real people, it’s just making it easier for our volunteers and organizers to do it. And Loki, you told me last week that we needed to up our tech profile.”

“I did?”

“You did.”

Loki sighs, and settles back in his chair. “Honestly, at this point you could tell me that I’d asked for a chorus of stripper cops for the next rally, and I’d probably believe you.”

Slip smiles. “Everything okay?” 

“Yeah, yeah,” Loki says. “Just getting to that time, I guess. The Stark benefit’s tonight, Thor and I are up to our necks in planning logistics for all the _other_ events he has scheduled this weekend, and I had a very odd conversation this morning with the personal assistant of a man who hates my guts.”

Slip opens her mouth and then shuts it. She silently starts counting off on the fingers of one hand. 

“Ha ha,” Loki says. “Clint Barton, in this case. Miss Bishop wanted to make sure that there’s going to be a chance for the press to ask questions. And to confirm that Barton will be representing the Tri-City Ledger, of course.”

“Fenrir told me about him,” Slip says. “At least a little.”

“Yeah,” Loki gets up and goes to the window. “He’s a pain in the ass.” Which isn’t exactly how Loki’s feeling about Clint just at the moment, but it comes close enough.  

“We don’t have to give him access,” Slip says thoughtfully. “At least, I don’t think we do. I guess we’d have to talk to Press about that.”

Loki does consider it for a moment.

“No,” he says, shaking his head. “If word got out that we’d blocked him, it wouldn’t look good.”

“But there’s going to be a lot of coverage, if he says something it’ll get picked up by—”

“He doesn’t have anything,” Loki says firmly. “I’ve thought it over for weeks, and there’s nothing he could have that could do any damage.”

“Damage?” Thor’s in the door, sneaking up in that stealthy silent way Loki is convinced is basic training at West Point. “Who could do damage? Hi, Slip.”

“Hi Thor,” Slip smiles. “We’re talking about Clint Barton.”

“That psycho,” Thor laughs. “Is he finally putting his assassination scheme into effect? Pretty smart of him to wait for this long. Put you off your guard.” He heads over to a chair and carefully lowers himself into it, leaning his cane against Loki’s desk. 

“Having his assistant call to make sure I know he’s coming to assassinate me, less smart.”

“Yeah, well. Maybe he doesn’t want it to be too easy.”

“I should go collect Phil,” Slip smiles at the pair of them. “See you guys later. And enjoy the benefit, if I don’t see you before then.”

“Sure,” Loki says. And, a little guiltily: “Sorry, Slip.”

She flaps a hand at him and leaves, closing the door behind her. 

“Sorry for what?” Thor asks.

Loki sighs. “I was just being an asshole. Stress. And this Barton thing. I seriously wouldn’t be surprised if he was doing this just to fuck with my head.”

“That would be pretty stealthy of him. And it’s not just your head he’s fucking with, either. Dad called me earlier to ask me what I knew about it.”

“Is Barton still harassing him?” Loki’s alarmed now. “He called me about it _weeks_ ago. What the hell, that’s—”

“Relax, relax. Nothing’s happened recently. Dad just wanted to hear my take on it. He said he didn’t want to distract me with it when I was on the road.”

“Oh.”

“You never said anything about it to me.” Thor actually looks kind of hurt. He’s got his stoic face on, at least. Which is, Loki knows for a fact, reserved for fights at the family dinner table that get too heated and when Jane is angry with him. Loki can’t remember the last time _he_ was the cause of it. 

“I didn’t think it was important,” Loki says. “I still don’t think it’s important.”

“But you could have mentioned it. I could have done something.”

“Like what?” Loki grins. “Ridden into the Tri-City Ledger’s office on a big white horse, bellowing about journalistic integrity and the American way? There’s nothing any of us can do.”

Thor glares at Loki’s desk. 

“Unless you wanted to sic Jane on him,” Loki offers. 

“God no,” Thor sighs and sits up a little. “He doesn’t deserve _that_. She’s made war criminals and dictators cry.”

“I like her.”

“So do I,” Thor grins. And shakes his head. “Man, I don’t know how you do it. I can never stay annoyed at you.”

Loki’s feeling better about the whole Barton thing too, just from talking about it. But he doesn’t say that. Instead he just laughs. 

“I’m going to hold you to that a few months from now when I’m shepherding you to 20 states in 15 days to make 30 speeches. Speaking of, how’s the Benefit one looking?”

Thor shrugs. “Tony hasn’t given us anything final to base mine off of, but Pepper sent over the basic jist of what he’s going to say. Probably. As long as he doesn’t get rambly.”

Loki sinks his head into his hands. 

“She doesn’t think that’ll be too likely,” Thor says, kindly. “So we’ve worked up something nice.”

Loki sighs. “Well, that’s good.”

“I wasn’t sure...” Thor hesitates. “I wasn’t sure if you wanted me to say anything about the two of you.”

“What?”

Thor laughs. “Man, you should see your face. I just meant, you know, if I should mention that you guys—”

“It’s not relevant at all,” Loki splutters. “Why would you even— it’s not important.”

“Well, I was just thinking, I guess because of Barton, that if news about your past gets out, it’d be better if we could control how that happens, and do it first. And besides, it’s part of the whole story.”

“No. It’s not.”

Thor looks at him, surprised. Loki takes a deep breath, and realizes he’s gripping the edge of his desk tightly with both hands. He was laughing just a second ago. He’s not now. 

“Loki,” Thor says carefully. “You know I trust you.”

Loki stares at him. 

“So if you tell me it’s not important, I believe you,” Thor says. “Because I know you’re the best at putting everything else aside and getting the job done. Better than anyone I know. But I’ve never seen you like this about... well, about anything personal. And I just want to make sure that this isn’t... affecting you.”

“‘Affecting’ me,” Loki echoes. “Affecting the campaign, you mean. No, you’re right—” he holds up a hand when Thor tries to interrupt. “This might be the sort of thing that, professionally, could use some planning. Tony’s much more involved in the campaign than we thought he’d be, so it can’t hurt to get another opinion. I’ll go see Heimdall, and talk to Chau in legal. But for tonight just— keep the focus on you and Stark. There’s no reason I should be mentioned at all.”

“Hey, Loki—”

“I’ve got work to do, Thor,” Loki says calmly. “Go see if you can get Jane to take you out for lunch.”

Thor massages his bad leg with one hand, a gesture of habit more than something that actually helps or is necessary. He makes no move to get up. 

Loki sighs. “It’s just— you know how I am. With my shitshow of a personal life. Sorry.”

“I love you, man,” Thor says, getting to his feet finally. “I just want you to know that, before anything else.”

“Yeah,” Loki says, trying not to sound as tired as he feels. “I know.”

 

~

 

When a shadow fell over his face, Loki didn’t open his eyes. It was a Friday afternoon, the October sun was bright and warm on Healy Lawn, and the blissful knowledge that he was lying in the grass a mere ten feet from Lauinger Library (the ugliest university building known to man) but didn’t have to set foot in it for at least another two days were all things that made this interruption completely unacceptable. 

“Loki Gard, right?”

“Hey, what’s up.” He didn’t open his eyes. It had happened before, total strangers who thought it was okay to start a conversation with Loki about his family, just because his dad was Chief Justice. There was a Jordanian _prince_ in his microeconomics class who got less attention than Loki. Fucking Georgetown political nerds. 

But the guy, whoever he was, laughed. That, and the “Don’t want to interrupt your nap, I just really like what you’re working on in class right now,” got him to crack one eye open. 

Standing above him was, surprisingly, someone he actually knew. Or knew by sight, anyway: he was in his Oil Painting II class, the guy who always tied his deadlocks up into a messy bun when he was really into his work. Loki’d noticed him basically the first day of class; he couldn’t help how his eyes had lingered on the guy’s cheekbones and strong jaw.

“Oh, hey,” Loki sat up onto his elbows. “Thanks,”

“I don’t know how I’m going to finish mine on time,” the guy (Loki can’t remember his name, shit) said. 

“You’re doing all the interlocking hands, right?” Loki said, because he remembered that at least. 

“Yeah,” the guy said, looking pleased. “They’re more interesting than apples and pears, for sure, but god are they turning into a huge pain.”

The guy smiled. Loki laughed. 

The smile turned a little expectant, a little hesitant. Loki was a second away from telling him to sit down, a second away from making some other crack about the class, about painting, about the freaking school mascot, _anything_ , but that smile froze any comment in Loki’s throat. 

So he didn’t say anything. 

“Cool, well, see you in class,” the guy said. He didn’t look upset, but his smile wasn’t so wide anymore. 

“Yeah,” Loki said. “Yeah, have a good weekend.”

He didn’t watch the guy walk away. He flopped back onto the grass and closed his eyes again. The sun was too bright, suddenly. 

He hadn’t touched or been touched by anyone in months. It was no different from how he’d been before he met Tony— eighteen years without that kind of contact, so four months of the same was comparatively nothing— but he had to wonder if maybe for all those years his skin had been screaming to be touched by someone, _anyone_ , and he just didn’t know how to recognize the sound of it yet. 

Because now he definitely did. He could go hours, days, weeks without thinking about it. And then without really any cause or reason, his whole body would just _ache_ for fingers wrapped around his shoulders, lips on his neck, teeth at his inner thigh. 

But he couldn’t, he couldn’t let anyone do that yet. Because the thought of it hurt even more than his need for it. 

 

Of course, it was only a matter of time before he saw some trashy gossip rag’s headline about Tony’s latest menage-a-trois with some model and her cousin: a decadent weekend of Beverly Hills parties, fast cars, and drugs that could turn your brain inside out. 

He didn’t know if it was true. But it didn’t really matter. 

That night he went out, and drank until someone took him home. And it got easier after that. 

Well, the sex part did, anyway. 

 

~

 

“Ladies and gentlemen,” Steve says from the podium. He’s worked them like a master, and now the whole ballroom is suffused with a happy sort of relaxed good-humor. Or something like it. 

As Steve says: “He doesn’t need any more of an introduction, but here’s one last anyway: New York’s own, Tony Stark,” the air seems to thicken and tingle, lawyers and business people and politicos of all variety leaning forward a little in their seats, sitting up a little straighter.

Loki taps his fingers on the table absently. No tablet to jab at now. He’s not technically supposed to be working, so he can just watch and enjoy himself. Or that’s what Sif has already told him four times tonight, before finally assigning him to Fenrir and giving Fenrir strict orders not to let Loki anywhere near her until the benefit’s over.

Loki’s not big on watching and enjoying himself. Even if, miraculously, everything’s gone according to plan so far.

The ballroom in the Ritz is almost glowing with warm orange light. Plush rust-colored carpet covers the floor, the part at least that isn’t laid with hardwood panels for dancing. Paper lanterns in shades of crimson and saffron dangle from the ceiling, and every table and wall is decked with cloth in shades of gold.

“Because nothing says ‘we’re the 1%’ like solid gold decorations,” Loki had said when he’d first arrived.

“Trust me. With the crowd we’re getting tonight, that’s a good message to project,” Sif had said.

And Loki can’t say he wasn’t impressed when he walked in. He’s been to plenty of black tie functions, so it’s not really the finery that does it for him. It’s more seeing all these people together in one place, each one in some way the ruler of their own little hill. Powerful people all in one place together has been a mainstay in Loki’s life, and he can count himself amongst them now. But it’s still not something you can ever get completely desensitized to.

There’s no real excuse for him to watch the crowd anymore, each one of these powerful people looking intently at Tony as he steps up to the podium, having clapped Steve on the back so hard he almost knocks him over (Steve, to his credit, just laughs and punches him on the arm).

These businesspeople, senators, hedge fund managers, wall street brokers, senior aids and consultants, look starstruck by Tony. Loki can feel it rising in the room around him, rustling gently through the crowd.

“Hey, people,” Tony says.

Loki’s sitting down at a table with his family, right in the front. If he could be up and moving around he would be, possibly out of the room. Instead he has to sit here like a well-behaved guest, looking up at Tony. Bathed in lights, looking exactly the same as he does in every other televised speech Loki has seen him give. But now Tony’s standing before him, and so _real_ , it makes all the TV appearances seem like a lie. The camera might add ten pounds, as Loki has heard said way too often, but in Tony’s case it just isn’t enough to capture his— whatever it is that makes it impossible to look away from him.Loki shifts in his seat, and sternly tells himself to focus. 

“So no one in their right mind would trust me with running the country,” Tony says. “Let’s be honest, my area of expertise really falls on the side of you know, disorder and chaos. That’s where all the fun is.”

Loki’s grin teeters over the line between ‘broad’ and ‘rictus,’ and he shoots a look at the next table over where Pepper is calmly sipping her martini. She catches his eye and smiles, shoulders lifting in a near-invisible shrug.

Very reassuring.

“But let’s leave my personal life out of this,” Tony says, and the crowd titters appreciatively. “Besides, I think my record— not the one lovingly catalogued by the National Enquirer— speaks for itself.”

Tony steps around the podium, coming in front of it. _Shit,_ Loki thinks distantly, _he better still be in range of the mics_. But Loki won’t have a problem hearing Tony. The podium was set up right in front of his table, and now Tony’s even closer.

“And it says that I’ve kind of made a pet project of making the world a better place. You know, foiling the bad guys. Righting wrongs. And trying, just a little bit, to rein in some of the chaos around us. Because I’ve seen what happens to a world where chaos is allowed to go unchecked.” Loki’s sitting close enough to see how Tony flexes the fingers of both hands, as though to keep them from bunching into fists.

“Yeah, sure, all that was in some little patch of sand on the other side of the world. Doesn’t mean we in the great US of A are heading down some slippery slope into, I don’t know, hacking each other to bits in some wacky feudal nightmare. But much as I am completely against any kind of character-building life lessons, lived experience is kind of a brutal teacher.

“And I learned a lot, those months I spent in Afghanistan. How to say ‘thanks, this porridge looks delicious,’ in Hungarian. How to re-purpose missile components into a charming vase. And, I guess most importantly, the big one: That sometimes, it’s all on you. When the chips are down, when your number’s up, when the gambling metaphor tells you it’s time: you’re the only one who can do what needs doing. Nothing voluntary about it. It’s not a calling, it’s not destiny, it’s standing up and being a hero because there’s no other alternative.”

Tony’s not joking anymore, and the room is utterly silent. He could be yards away from any microphone and still be heard clearly by everyone there. This is easily the most he’s said about his kidnapping in Afghanistan since the first press conference after his miraculous return. _Brilliant_ , a very cold part of Loki thinks, looking up at Tony, _this speech will be on every channel and in every newspaper by tomorrow morning_.

“I also learned that sometimes it’s _not_ you,” Tony says. “And yeah, that one was a shocker, because come on, _everything_ is about me. But I can admit it: sometimes it’s all about the other guy. About knowing that someone else has the skills to get the tough job done, and it’s up to you to play the supporting role. To help him do it. And not, you know, steal the limelight. Which is something I never do, of course.”

Tony nods to acknowledge the scattered laughter he gets in response, and waits until the room is quiet again before he goes on. “There was a man who died for me. In Afghanistan. His name was Yinsen **.** ” His tone is light and casual, but Loki think there’s something frozen about the look in his eyes, something that he doubts anyone else could notice. “And he gave his life to save mine in those caves. We didn’t have a lot of time to talk it over before he did, since I was hooked into a machine and he was the one running off with an assault rifle, but I think he did it because he believed I was the one who could make a difference. Who could be that hero. And he thought it was worth it—” he clears his throat, pressing his fist against his chest. “—worth putting everything else on the line. Just to help me get where I am today.”

He pauses for just a moment, gaze flicking to Loki for maybe half a second before moving over to Thor. Then he smiles.

“Thor, you know I love you, but selflessness and self-sacrifice? Not my shtick. Luckily, DC isn’t quite _that_ cutthroat,” the tension breaks, and there’s some laughter. Tony talks over the noise,  smiling like he’s inviting them all in on the joke.

“So no, no daring heroics here, wow. But how about this— what I, as Tony Stark, can do, is help get you where you should be. You know. The White House,” more applause. Tony waits for it to die down before he goes on.

“What I knew about Thor Gard, even before I met him, was that this is a guy who is familiar with chaos. Almost as much as I am. Admittedly, in not so many scandalous ways, hey, nobody’s perfect. But unlike me, he can master chaos. He’s done it in combat, and he’s done it on the Senate floor. I leave it to you to decide which is a scarier place to be.

“I got sucked into his orbit two years ago, working out some legislation for defense contracting,” he waves a hand dismissively.  “Nothing glamorous, nothing sexy. But he approached me about trying to get better regulations for arms sales by private companies, full of the crazy idea that I knew something about the buying and selling that gets done in some of the trickier parts of the world. And that I wanted to change that. The whole thing was months of hard work, thankless work, and Thor put himself up against some serious big bads to do it.”

He smiles. “After working with Thor on that, I was totally sold on the guy. And his record, his reputation? All stuff I had been paying attention to. I admired him before I met him, but working with Thor is another experience entirely. Because we get the gleaming god-like persona, the big smiles and the laugh and just how _cute_ he is, alright? But you work with Thor, and you’ll understand that— while still extremely adorable— this is a man meant to lead. He sees the chaos around him, and not only decides that it must be fixed, but that he’s the one to fix it.

“President Osborn’s brainiacs think that they can kill this campaign by trying to tear him down on his business experience.” Loki imagines he can hear the focus sharpening in the room, immaculately-dressed Forbes Top 100 heavyweights leaning forward in their chairs. “We’re trapped in an economic nightmare— one that Osborn hasn’t helped much— so people are scared, they’re hurting. The last thing anyone wants is a President whose business expertise begins and ends with ‘Banking for Dummies.’ So let me just make this clear. I trust Thor Gard to handle these issues. I’ve seen this guy talk business, and he knows what he’s doing. And more importantly, when he doesn’t know what he’s doing, he _asks_. And listens to what other people have to say before he decides what to do. Crazy. I’ve met a lot of businessmen and I’ve met plenty of politicians, and that’s not a super common trait with either group.

“Okay, what gives me the right to stand up here, and tell you that Thor Gard, one of the youngest candidates that this country’s ever seen, is good for business interests and good for the country? Well, I know what I’m talking about here, for one thing. I might have a less than savory reputation, but despite my various sins, no one can accuse me of being bad at business. And any HR whiz will tell you that identifying the right person for the job is key to any business’ success. I hear that Stark Industries is doing pretty good these days,” Tony pauses to allow for the moderate applause. “So I’d say I’m pretty good at picking the right person for the right job. And I say, with total confidence and complete surety, that Thor Gard is the right person for _this_ job.

“As President he can identify chaos and bring order to it. And I’m going to do whatever I can to help him get there. I’m going to start by shutting up and letting him get up here to talk to you, because seriously, no one is better able to win you over than the big lug himself. 

“Beautiful people, I give you, the next President of the United States: Thor Gard.”

The noise is huge. Thor gets to his feet, _everyone_ gets to their feet, whooping and cheering. Thor pulls Tony into a hug.

Loki starts clapping and gets up a moment behind everyone else. Thor heads up to the podium, but Loki’s eyes are on Tony as he moves to his seat next to Pepper. Amongst the general back-patting and slight reshuffling as everyone gets ready for Thor’s speech, Pepper says something to Tony that makes him turn. Turn to look at Loki, and smile.

 

~

 

“I won’t let you do this,” Sif said.

“Sif,” Loki groaned, turning over in bed to look at the clock on his desk. 4:27, in cold, cruel, glowing green numbers. “What the fuck timezone are you in?”

“You can’t give up,” she said, steamrolling right over him. “You’re too talented, Loki. I won’t let you throw that away.”

“I’m not throwing anything away, I’m just changing my major,” Loki said. 

“Don’t give me that bullshit. I know you. So what does this sudden interest in government policy mean for your art career, huh?”

“Sif,” Loki tried for reasonable and patient, but mostly just sounded pissed. “I told you. The art program here sucks. I’ve been here just two semesters and I’ve taken half of the classes they offer. I can’t just focus on art.”

“You can,” Sif said. “You should.”

“No, I shouldn’t,” Loki sighed. “I like the classes I’m taking now too. I’m starting to get it, why my— why people here are so fired up about this stuff. It’s important. And it’s interesting.”

Sif didn’t say anything. 

“I’m never going to quit painting. It’s not going to happen. I’m just— it’s not bad to have other things going on in your life, you know?”

“You said you never wanted to go into politics,” Sif said quietly. “You said it wasn’t for you, you said you weren’t even tempted.”

Anger flared in Loki’s gut, but he forced it down. “Yeah, I did. But I changed my mind. I’m allowed to do that, Sif.”

“Okay, okay,” Sif sighed. “Sorry, I just worry about you. You know.”

Loki softened. “Yeah, I do. Thanks.”

“When’s your next break? My mom keeps saying it’s time they met you, so yes, they do still think we’re dating. No matter what I say.”

“I’ve got a week in March,” Loki said. “I can be a good boyfriend and meet the parents.”

“Gross,” Sif said.

Loki smiled. Then, struck by a thought: “Sif, how did you even find out about my major, I only handed in the paperwork today and—”

“Well, must dash, I’m going to be late for Rigoletto.” And she hung up. 

Loki looked at his cellphone. Somehow, this was probably Fenrir’s fault. He sighed, and let himself fall back into bed. 

 

~

 

“That went well,” Fenrir says, pressing a champagne flute into Loki’s hand. “Please drink this, it’s causing me physical pain to look at you right now.”

“Any news from outside?” Loki asks. “Coverage, reports, anything like that?”

“I’d say that I’m off duty so I don’t have to work now, but we’d both know that’s a lie,” Fenrir sighs. “No coverage yet. Heimdall’s been texting me updates but other than a few tweets from some of the press here, nothing major. It will be tomorrow though, thanks to Tony.”

“It could have been worse,” Loki says noncommittally. 

Fenrir raises his eyebrows at him. “Umm, were we watching the same speech? Because I’m pretty sure that he fucking _nailed_ it.” 

“I saw Clint Barton earlier,” Loki says, not bothering to be more subtle in changing the subject. He’s looking out at the dance floor, which has filled more and more after the guests started to discover the open bar. 

“Yeah, he’s around,” Fenrir says cautiously. “Has he said anything to you?”

Loki shakes his head. “I think he’s avoiding me.” He rolls his shoulders, trying to ease the knot of tension that’s settled right between his shoulder blades. He’s been carrying it ever since he talked to Barton’s assistant. Or maybe ever since Sif first sat down and told him to meet with Tony. Or maybe ever since Thor called him and told him he wanted to run. Or—

Stop. This isn’t helpful.

“He’s not important,” Loki says. “And you’re right. Tony and Thor were both great.”

Fenrir smiles. “So mission accomplished, huh? I think I saw some pretty high-powered CEOs practically weeping after Thor finished his bit.”

“It was beautiful,” Loki grins, “I love to see a rich man cry.”

“Wow, ouch.” 

Loki isn’t even surprised to turn around and see Tony behind him, holding a glass and smiling at him, if a little cautiously. 

“I’d say that probably sounded different out of context, but I know better,” Tony says.

“I’m going to track down Sif, see when the press conference is set to start,” Fenrir says, the coward. And before Loki can say anything, he’s gone. Poof, like a very well-dressed cloud of smoke. 

Tony watches him go, and huffs a short laugh. “Amazing, how often Fenrir needs to go talk to someone very far away when I’m around.”

“Yeah?” Loki asks, trying to sound innocently curious. “You guys haven’t re-connected?”

“Not so much,” Tony says, and looks back at Loki. “I’m pretty sure he has a crush on me.”

Loki doesn’t roll his eyes. Just barely. “I’m sure that’s what it is.”

“Mmm. Cute,” Tony sips his drink, and nods down at the one that Loki’s holding. “So, play?”

Loki pauses in the act of bringing the flute of champagne back up to his mouth. “Excuse me?”

“You’re drinking. So this is play, not work.”

Loki considers the champagne flute like he hasn’t really seen it before. “Fenrir said I had to drink it.”

“He’s a very wise man. So,” Tony’s smile is a little more assured now, “how’d I do?”

Loki covers his smile with another sip of champagne. “Not too bad. I’m just impressed that you at no point started singing 80’s metal ballads.”

“Bruce Dickinson is the voice of our times, and like myself, doomed to be unappreciated by the general public,” Tony says. 

“You’re hardly unappreciated.”

“Oh?” Tony steps in a little closer as a couple passes behind him, but doesn’t step back once they’ve passed. 

“If you need me to stroke your ego—”

“No, please,” Tony puts up his hands. “I know better than to bring that on myself.”

Loki drains his champagne flute, and looks meditatively across the floor. The music has subtly climbed in volume and more of the guests are making advances onto the dance floor. He doesn’t recognize the song that’s on now but that isn’t surprising, as he hasn’t exactly kept up with popular culture for the past few months. But it’s something fast, something with a hard beat and a thrumming bass, something Loki would be tempted to nod along to, in another time and place. 

He’s still mad at Tony, he reminds himself. There’s heat in his belly and prickles of nerves crawling over his arms so he’s definitely still mad at Tony. But after that speech, it takes a moment to remember just what in particular he should be mad at Tony for. 

“It was a great speech,” Loki says. He looks at Tony directly, and seriously. “Thank you.”

Tony blinks, his eyes darting over Loki’s face for a moment before he speaks. “It’s all true, you know.”

Loki has to take a shallow breath before he asks, “about Afghanistan?”

“What?” Tony laughs and takes a small step back. “No, no. About Thor. I wasn’t bullshitting about Thor.”

“Oh,” Loki says. “Right.”

Tony crosses his arms and looks away. “I mean. Afghanistan too. I—” he looks back at Loki. He’s not wearing glasses tonight, and Loki hadn’t really thought about it before or bothered to notice; he’s seen Tony without glasses recently. But he hasn’t seen Tony without glasses this close. And looking at Loki the way he is now, there’s nothing masking those eyes, no way to really ignore them. Until something in them twists, and Tony looks away. “—I meant it about Thor. I really do believe that he’s, you know. Right. For the job.”

He feels like that wasn’t what Tony was going to say, but Loki’s almost relieved that it went unsaid, whatever it was. “I know you believe in him,” he says. “If you didn’t, there’s no way you could have been as convincing.”

“Hey now,” Tony snorts. “Give my powers of deception a little more credit than that.”

Loki smiles. “Yeah, you’re a real cipher. Who knows what you’re hiding under that calm, blank mask?”

Tony laughs, louder than the line really merits. But doesn’t respond otherwise, so Loki figures he’s not supposed to really get the joke. 

He’s about to say something else— something innocuous about the crowd, or something— but is caught short by the sight of Clint Barton across the room. Their eyes meet, just as Clint turns to say something to the young brunette in a purple gown standing next to him. After a somewhat loaded moment where they both stare at each other across the room, Clint raises a hand and waves cheerfully at him. Loki’s eyes narrow. 

Tony turns to see what he’s looking at just as Clint turns away, he and the brunette vanishing back into the crowd. 

“Barton,” Tony says. “Huh.”

“You know him?” Loki asks. Possibly more surprised and instantly more concerned than he’d like to be. 

Tony shrugs. “The press, you know. He tried to get me for an interview a few days ago, but Pepper shut him down.” His smile goes soft and fond. “She’s great at that.”

“I guess that makes sense,” Loki says. “Fenrir said that he’d been reaching out to—” he trails off, as he hadn’t really meant to say that out loud. _Shit,_ he’s got to talk to Barton sometime soon, get all this out in the open. It really is messing with his head. 

Tony doesn’t say anything, he’s just _looking_ at Loki again. 

“—to all my exes,” Loki finishes, because he sure as hell isn’t going to back down at this point. 

“Really?” Tony looks after Barton again. “Huh. That’s— long list?”

Loki levels a look at Tony, who actually _laughs_ and raises his hands in a please-don’t-shoot pose. “Sorry, sorry. Should’ve known better.”

“Yeah, you probably should have,” Loki says. But he’s not mad, not really. And Tony can tell, because he lowers his hands and steps in a little closer. 

“Story of my life,” Tony says. 

The volume of the music is getting a little louder, and the babble of conversation around them has risen to match it. So when Tony next speaks, it’s almost too quiet for Loki to hear. 

“This is really over, then.”

“‘This’?” Loki checks the way his voice almost catches over the word.

“The benefit. Mission accomplished, job well done, we can all dive into the pile of donated cash like some exceptionally well-dressed Scrooge McDuck wannabes. And then see you in the White House, be sure to save me a good spot at the Inauguration that shows off my good side. This, all this, it’s done.”

Loki’s had to lean in a little to hear him, but he pulls back almost too quickly, looking down into Tony’s face. And Tony’s looking up at him again. He’s smiling a little. 

He’s thought about it before, sure. Plenty of times, and generally more in that he was looking forward to not working with Tony anymore. But he hasn’t really thought about it _tonight._ Which— which is actually pretty strange. 

“Let me get you a drink,” Tony says, before Loki can really recover. “I mean, it’s an open bar, it’s not like I’d be paying for it or anything. Apart from the impressive donation and contributions and putting my name on the thing, so actually it’d be the most expensive drink I may have bought anyone in my entire life. But. Will you? Let me get you a drink?”

And Tony is smirking, just a little. But it’s hardly up to his usual performance, and there’s something terribly fragile about it. It reminds him, Loki thinks, of the look of someone who is horribly aware of the moment around them. What it means, what it could mean. Someone who knows better than to expect the best, but can’t stop themselves from hoping for it anyway. 

Or maybe Loki’s imagining all this. That sort of thing, it doesn’t fit Tony Stark. He’s not that kind of guy, right? All surface, no depth, that’s the Tony Stark the world is so familiar with. 

Of course, Loki knows better than that. Right now he wishes he didn’t. But he does. 

And he has to answer. But Loki’s mind has gone completely blank. 

He opens his mouth anyway, and something has to come out, even if he doesn’t know yet what it will be, when—

“Tony, Loki, _there_ you are,” Sif is dressed for battle in Oscar de la Renta— daringly slit up to her thigh and playfully bright green— and has all the commanding presence of an experienced general. “Press time, before everyone gets too wasted. Let’s go.”

She links her arm through Loki’s and steers them across the room. Tony trails behind them, but as Sif turns back to say something to him about the speech, Loki keeps his eyes ahead. It isn’t until they’re pushing through the doors separating the prepared press conference area and the ballroom proper that the heavy weight drops down into his stomach. 

Because he was going to say yes. 

Given another second, he would have said yes to Tony. 

He sucks in a deep breath. Sif catches it, of course, and pats him on the arm. 

“Don’t be nervous, Loki, you’ve done this stuff a hundred times. You just have to stand there and look pretty while Tony and Thor answer questions.”

“Right,” Loki says, and clears his throat. “Right, yeah. I’m not nervous.”

“You shouldn’t be,” she grins, and punches him on the arm. “The worst is over, boys.”

Thor’s already in the room, surrounded by a knot of their staffers, probably prepping him at the last minute, adjusting the angle of his tie and jacket, dabbing at his face with tissues. His head is angled over his shoulder to say something to Jane, who’s standing behind him with her arms looped around his waist, trying to muffle her laughter against his back. Odin and Frigga stand a little apart, talking to some of the older press pool members who have covered DC events often enough that they’ve become friends. 

Fenrir peels away from the group around Thor and Loki heads towards him, sparing a glance at the assembled members of the press in the room (he recognizes at least fifteen, that’s good, good turnout, plenty of cameras too). Barton’s already seated, right in the middle of the press pool. He’s not talking to anyone, just sitting with his legs kicked up on the back of the seat in front of him, looking at something on his phone. 

Loki makes himself look away. It’s time. Time to talk to Fenrir, time to take his place next to Thor. Time to stop thinking about Tony. Time to get his shit together. 

Loki smiles. He can do it. He’s ready. 

 

~

 

Frigga was pulling on her blazer as she walked into the living room, but stopped short when she saw Loki on the couch. 

“Hey, I didn’t know you were coming home tonight,” she pressed a kiss into his hair and dropped down next to him on the couch. “There’s a benefit at the Smithsonian at nine, but your father will—” she paused. “Loki?”

Loki shut the book he’d been reading and set it down on the coffee table in front of him. He sighed. “It’s not a big deal—” he started to say.

“Uh oh.”

“Mom, come on,” Loki said. “It’s _really_ not a big deal, I just wanted to come home for the weekend. Long week, you know,”

Frigga looked at him. “Because of Tony?” she asked quietly. 

Loki ran the front cover of the paperback mystery under his thumb, and nodded. 

Frigga put her arm around his shoulders, and squeezed. “I’m so sorry, Loki.”

“Seems like every class I’m in, the professor’s got something to say about his being named CEO,” Loki laughs a little. This morning, his Life Drawing professor had gotten into a debate with their model over Stark Industries’ involvement in the Manhattan Project. “It’s just—” he stopped, and sighed. “It’s just been a shitty week. I needed a little space.”

“That sounds like a great idea,” Frigga said. “Why don’t you invite Suraj over? You two can take the car out to Alexandria if you want, book a room at a one of those cute little bed and breakfasts there, have a real weekend escape.”

Loki glanced at her. “Oh. That’s not really a thing, anymore.”

“When did that happen?” Frigga had liked Suraj, so she can’t entirely hide the disappointment in her voice. 

“Just a few days ago,” Loki scrubbed at his face with his hands. “Like I said. Awesome week.”

She started rubbing circles over his back. “Oh, Loki. I’m so sorry.”

“I’m the one that ended it, Mom. It’s just, you know. Still pretty shitty.” 

And Tony’s face was all over the place. Loki’s TA for Political Theory had said in office hours that it was just America’s obsession with the young and big business coming together in a big explosion. And as Tony Stark had become more and more well-known for his tabloid-worthy antics over the past year, it also fed into the national desire to see one of the rich and famous crash and burn. Which is even more exciting, his TA had said before Loki could finally persuade him to look over the outline for his final paper, when coupled with the potential for Tony to take down a major corporation with him. 

DC in general and Georgetown University in particular were places for people with passionate, deeply-held opinions. And Tony Stark was just the subject they all had something to say about. 

All except Loki. Who hadn’t said anything about Stark Industries, all week, to anyone. 

Well, he’d said something to Fenrir. To Fenrir, after seeing the headlines naming Tony CEO at the ripe old age of twenty, Loki had said: “Well. Fuck.”

“Shit,” Fenrir had said, with much feeling. And that had been that. 

“Maybe I’ll see if Fenrir’s doing anything,” Loki sighed and leaned in close to his mother’s side. “It’d be nice to get out of the city for a day or two.”

“That’s my boy,” Frigga said, squeezing his shoulders. “You call Fenrir. Then you can help me make cookies.”

“What about the Smithsonian?” Loki said, trying hard to pretend that his entire face hadn’t lit up at the word ‘cookies.’

She waved a hand at him. “Not important.”

“Mom—”

“Loki,” she said firmly. “If my baby boy needs me to make him cookies, then I will make him cookies. You’re more fun than those Smithsonian fuddy-duddy types, anyway.”

“Who even says ‘fuddy-duddy’ anymore?” Loki said, but he got up and wrapped her in a tight hug. 

Frigga patted him on the back. “Better call Fenrir. If your father catches us eating the dough before it’s cooked you know he’ll go off on his salmonella rant.”

“Got it, calling now,” Loki said, letting her go. 

She tousled his hair with one hand (she had to reach up a little to get to the top of his head). “I’ll get the oven started.”

 

~

 

Press conferences aren’t that exciting to Loki. They really never were; he grew up too used to them, either to his parents talking about ones they’d been to or attending them himself. The first one he’s supervised as Thor’s campaign manager, that had given him a little thrill. But there’s nothing inherently exciting in press conferences anymore for him. 

Because generally, and especially in politics, not that much happens at press conferences. No one says anything they haven’t already said in canned soundbites at other events or speeches dozens of times before, and are ususlaly too well-prepped to be caught off guard by a creatively-phrased question. 

Granted, Tony’s always have the potential for some really fantastic headlines the next day. But he seems to be at his best behavior tonight, and it really is more or less like every other press conference Loki’s been to: Tony calls reporters one by one as they raise their hands, they ask their question, he answers it. Lather, rinse, repeat the same tired old bullshit everyone else has heard before. 

Again, with Tony it’s a little different. Tony being Tony, there’s no way to predict how he might answer any question, which in the past has seemed to either frighten reporters or drive them into an eager frenzy. Loki wonders if any of the reporters are disappointed, when Sif nods at Tony after his half an hour and Tony steps down with a “that’s all, folks,” without so much as an expletive dropped into his comments on Dodd Frank. 

But the crowd seems happy and relaxed. Not that surprising. He thought it was impossible to get Jay Grimes from the Post to crack a smile, and Tony had that guy almost crying with laughter with his line about Vice President Stromm. 

Tony crosses to a seat next to Pepper. It’s on the opposite side of the room from where Loki’s standing, though if he was sitting where he was supposed to he would be on Pepper’s other side, next to his parents and Jane. 

Instead, he’s standing with Fenrir and Sif on the other side of the makeshift stage. It’s his preference anyway, but he also doesn’t think it’s a bad thing to have some distance from Tony right now. 

Thor takes the mic. “I’ve got 45 minutes,” he says, smiling out at everyone. “Then we all can get back to dancing and drinking Tony’s booze.”

That gets a laugh, and Thor nods at the first hand raised. 

“Celia Wei, New York Times,” the reporter says. “Senator Gard, with unemployment at 8.1%, how do you plan to get the jobs market growing again?”

Loki relaxes. Alright, he can admit it. The first question of a press conference for Thor does sometimes get him a little nervous. But once it’s passed, once it’s turned out to be something innocuous that Thor’s been asked plenty of times before, he instantly feels better. 

He looks over at his family across the room. Jane and Frigga are leaning close to each other, Frigga saying something to Jane though both their eyes are on Thor. Pepper and Tony are looking at Thor too, and actually—the only one in the VIP section who isn’t looking at Thor is Odin. 

Following his father’s eyes, nervousness sparks back to life along Loki’s spine. Odin’s looking at Clint Barton. 

Barton’s not looking back at him, though. He’s not looking at Thor, or even at Loki. He’s looking at his phone, thumbs racing over the screen. It’s not unusual for reporters to check their phones during a press conference. But usually they at least _look_ at the person they’re supposed to be reporting on once in a while.

Loki looks back at Odin, and his father’s looking at _him_ now. Loki raises his eyebrows at him, trying to communicate ‘what’s going on’ silently and without also communicating it to a room full of cameras. Odin shakes his head and turns his attention to Thor. Though now Loki’s not sure that Thor is really where his focus is. 

Thor wraps up the unemployment question, and calls on Monroe from Newsweek. Loki tunes in to the question about Thor’s response to Osborn’s charges against his business experience, and then tunes back out again. 

Well, now he can’t stop looking at Barton and what he’s doing. Or what he’s _not_ doing, notably, raising his hand to try and get a question in. What was the point of all this, of the phone calls, the double-checking to make sure questions would be allowed at the conference, if he wasn’t going to actually _ask_ anything?

Barton looks up, probably feeling Loki’s eyes burning into the top of his head. And Barton _grins_ at him. 

Loki goes cold. _You motherfucker_ , he thinks. _What are you planning?_ It’s impossible, he knows it’s impossible, but that smile makes him want to just pull the plug on the whole thing. Two questions into the press conference or not, he wants to snatch the mic out of Thor’s hands and just send them all away. Because something is _not right._ And he can feel it, he can read it in Barton’s fucking smile, but he doesn’t know what it is. And that’s scaring him more than anything else. 

He can’t stop the conference, of course. That would be crazy, impossible to explain, and well-documented by basically all the major international news outlets. It would be a disaster. 

Loki still wants to, though. He really, really wants to. 

Barton looks back down at his phone, and presses a few more buttons. Then he slides it into his jacket pocket, and sits back. He’s still smiling, smiling back at Loki as Thor takes the next question (what about, Loki’s not even sure anymore as his pulse pounding in his ears is making it hard to hear). 

He doesn’t know what else to do but keep glaring at Barton, since to break eye contact would feel like surrender. So he doesn’t immediately notice the ripple of motion throughout the press pool. 

It starts small. One phone, maybe two buzz in pockets and purses. Again, not unusual. But while Thor talks, more and more reporters are resting their handheld recorders on their knees, thumbing open messages and e-mails. 

Loki only notices when he realizes that Barton is now almost the only one in the room _not_ looking at a phone. That almost every other reporter is furiously typing, whispering to each other and looking— yes, turning around in their seats, craning their necks to see better— looking back at Barton. 

And then, then they’re looking over at him. 

Sif shifts next to him, frowning out over the crowd. It doesn’t seem like anyone else has noticed. Certainly not Thor, since his eyebrows shoot up a little when almost double the hands come up as had been raised before. 

 _Don’t_ , Loki wants to shout, to hell with rationality and the campaign _._ But his whole body is frozen, he feels vaguely light-headed with dread and doesn’t want to risk even unclenching his jaw for the fear of what might come out. _Don’t take this one, Thor_. 

But he does, of course. He has to. 

“Scarlett Rivers, MSNBC,” the reporter says. Loki snaps his gaze back at Barton, and the look on his face is somewhere between Christmas morning and a religious experience, he’s _glowing_ , “Senator Gard, you’ve always held a comparatively hard line on immigration reform compared to others in the Democratic Party. How does that line up with your own family, given the illegal adoption and naturalization of your brother as an American citizen?”

It takes Loki several long, long moments to make sense of the words. 

And his first impulse is to laugh. 

 _That’s_ what Barton thought he had? _That’s_ the secret that’s been haunting Loki for weeks? The idiot, the complete and utter _moron_ , going to all this trouble for something that—

And Loki looks at his parents. Any thought, any temptation to laugh, dies. 

Frigga is clinging to Odin’s arm, so tightly that Loki can see her knuckles clenched even at this distance, staring wide-eyed at Scarlett Rivers, MSNBC. Odin is— he’s gone white, he’s gone completely white, and he’s not looking at Scarlett Rivers, he’s looking at _Loki._

And it’s all there. All of it, written right across his face, the fear and the grief and the pain as he looks at his— but if not his son, than what—

“What?” Thor asks, laughing. But uncertainly, and he’s looking around at Loki and Sif has sunk her fingers into his arm and Fenrir has grabbed him by the elbow and is whispering “I’ve got him, I’ve got him, you take this,” and tugging Loki away and there are other voices raised now too, reporters smelling blood in the water and shedding any and all good humor they might have had earlier. Their claws are out.

_—true that Justice Gard used his authority to—_

_—DNA testing proved that the birth father was—_

_—falsified the birth certificate and documents for a home birth that—_

_—how did Loki first—_

And that’s the one that does it. That’s _his_ name, that’s him they’re talking about, _screaming_ about. It really is him. 

The floor rocks under his feet, and he staggers into Fenrir. 

“I’ve got you,” Fenrir says, voice high and pinched and Loki can feel the arm wrapped around his shoulders shaking. “Jesus _shit_ , don’t worry man, it’s all going to be okay, we’re just going to—”

They’re out of the press room now, and Loki’s not sure if they passed through the ballroom at all but now they’re in what looks like a back set of hallways that might lead to the kitchen. Cold, white, antiseptic, fluorescent, and Loki screws his eyes shut against it all because it _burns_. 

“I’m going to be sick,” Loki says thickly. 

“Shit, _shit,_ ” Fenrir says, and then is pushing open a door and by some miracle it _is_ a bathroom, and Loki drops to his knees in front of the toilet. It’s less the more usual bending of joints and muscles and more that he’s gone completely boneless. It feels like a colossal effort just to brace himself against the toilet bowl, swallowing around the giant lump in his throat and waiting for the riot in his guts to make a mad rush up out of his stomach. He would love that, he would _love_ for it all to just _get out_.

“Holy shit,” Fenrir is saying, pacing back and forth in the small space between Loki and the sink. “Holy shit. I’m —Sif? What the fu— yeah, we’re in a bathroom down the back hallway right in the—yeah. Well, how do _you_ think he is?”

A cold sweat’s broken out all over Loki’s body, and he can’t seem to get his breath, but the porcelain is cool under his hands and against his skin when he tips his head forward a little to rest against it, and maybe he won’t be sick after all. 

“Okay, good. That’s— Are you sure? Maybe I should just take him— okay, okay. Loki?” Fenrir’s kneeling next to him, a hand that feels much too cold on the back of his neck. “Sif’s with your dad.” 

At the word, Loki thinks maybe yes, he might throw up after all. 

“Do you want to talk to him?”

Loki tries to clear his throat, but it doesn’t do anything to help. “Just— give me a second,” he manages to croak out. 

“Hold on,” Fenrir says into his phone. The firm grip he has on Loki’s neck feels like the only thing keeping Loki from flying into pieces right now. Loki focuses on that, focuses on his breathing, tries to force his thoughts into some kind of order. 

He’s not sure how long it takes, but eventually he lifts his head up. That seems to go alright, so he lets go of the toilet bowl and sits back. 

“You don’t have to do this now,” Fenrir says. He’s sitting next to Loki, hand now on Loki’s shoulder. “You can crash at my place, talk to him tomorrow.”

“No,” Loki says. It _sounds_ like he’s been puking his guts out, god. “No, I’m okay. I want to see him.”

Fenrir’s hand tightens on his shoulder. “Okay,” he says. And then again, into the phone: “Okay.”

He hangs up, and helps Loki get to his feet. Loki gets a proper look around the bathroom for the first time: more or less like any bathroom you’d see anywhere, as the interior decorating wizards responsible for the rest of the Ritz clearly hadn’t been invited to work their will on the staff bathrooms. White tile floor, grey and white checkered tile on the walls, one toilet, a sink, and a mirror. A mop and a few boxes of toilet paper sitting next to the toilet. To keep from looking in the mirror Loki forces his attention to the sign over it, reminding employees that they are required by law to wash their hands. Loki heads over to the sink and turns to lean against it. He needs the support; doesn’t really trust his legs to hold his weight. 

There’s a soft knock at the door, and Loki’s stomach flips over. 

“I’ll wait for you outside, okay?” Fenrir is saying to Loki, barely audible over the dull whine that’s filling up Loki’s head. “Me and Sif will be out there, whenever you’re done. Okay?”

“Fenrir—” Loki grabs at Fenrir’s arm before Fenrir can move away. “You— Tell me you didn’t know about this.”

Fenrir barks out a laugh with a high edge of hysteria in it, but he chokes it off quickly,  “I swear, Loki. I didn’t know. There is _no way_ I could have predicted this.”

“Okay,” Loki lets go of his sleeve. “Okay. Thanks.”

There’s another knock, and Fenrir squeezes Loki’s shoulder again. Then he’s gone, and Odin is coming in. Blinking in the glare of the overhead lights, and looking like he’s aged ten years. 

If Loki hadn’t known it to be true before, he knows now. 

 

~

 

Everyone feels like an outcast, growing up. Loki had always been different, that’s just what he was. He could feel angry about it, especially once he got into the everything-sucks teenage phase. But even when he was angry, there was always that distant thought in the back of his head, that everyone feels this way. One time or another. Granted, not all of them are in a family that’s under national scrutiny. Or working out that they really actually aren’t interested in dating or doing anything with girls at all. Or the youngest son of three, with two brothers who shine so brightly that it hurts to look at them, sometimes. 

And even if he felt out of place in his own family sometimes, it wasn’t all the time. Yes, there were the physical differences: he wasn’t built like his brothers, didn’t have their lighter hair or broad smiles or towering height. And there were the other, maybe more significant things: how he hated crowds, didn’t enjoy being the center of attention, and certainly had no interest in public service the way Thor, Baldr, and almost all of the rest of his family (or it seemed that way, sometimes) did. 

But everyone feels that way, growing up. And Loki only had to take a breath, take a step back, and look around him, to know that it didn’t matter. It didn’t matter, because Baldr took his poems to Loki before he took them to anyone else. It didn’t matter, because Thor always picked Loki for his team, no matter what backyard sport they were playing or how terrible Loki was at it. And it didn’t matter, because Odin and Frigga knew when to give him space and when to sit him down and feed him cookies until he opened his mouth and told them what was wrong. 

Everyone feels out of place, growing up. But Loki was loved. He knew he was loved. And that made all the difference. 

 

~

 

“Were you ever going to tell me?” Loki asks, before the door’s fully closed behind Odin. 

Odin flinches. He walks slowly over to the toilet, lowers the lid, and sits down on it before answering. “No.”

Loki scrubs at his face with his hands, running them back and through his hair. 

“So,” he says, almost laughing at the insanity of the words coming out of his mouth. “Who am I?”

And as he says it, he can feel what’s left of his world fall away. 

“You’re my son,” Odin says simply. 

“Who,” Loki says slowly, anger slowly feeling its way up into his chest. “Am. I?”

Odin looks at him. His expression is hard to read behind the eyepatch as it is, but he generally makes it even harder by maintaining this placid front at almost all times. Loki’s rarely seen a crack in it, when he thinks Odin might be angry or sad. But he might be showing it now, if the redness of his eye and the way he keeps clenching and unclenching his jaw is anything to go by. 

His—Odin puts his hands on his knees, a gesture that Loki recognizes with a fresh pang as his closing-statements-from-the-bench pose. 

“Your mother,” Odin says, and stops. He tries again. “Your mother’s name was Alyona Isayev. She was your brother’s nanny, when they were young.”

Loki doesn’t move, doesn’t speak. _Alyona Isayev_. 

“She— There was a man, who— I know you know the story.”

“What story?” Loki says. But there, at the outside edges of his mind, is a guess. _No_ , he thinks, hands clenching tight over the counter of the sink. _No, no, no..._

Odin sighs. “The story of how I lost my eye. Of—Peter Lukov.”

Loki’s knees buckle. “No,” he whispers. 

Odin’s gaze flicks over at him, and then away, going on as though he can’t bring himself to stop now. “After it happened, he went underground. It was before you were born, before any of you were born. Alyona never knew him, never saw him— we never talked about it, and she... she was a quiet person; not many friends outside of the family. No one to tell her, I suppose.

“I don’t know how they met,” Odin says wearily. “I suppose it must have been when Baldr was about nine.”

“How?” Loki says. “Lukov was arrested, he was locked up—”

“Not for long,” Odin shakes his head. “He pleaded insanity, and was out of the institution within two years, maybe three. And then he dropped out of sight. The police came to us, of course, to let us know. But we never heard a thing from him. We thought... well, we hoped it was all over.”

“But?” Loki sounds calm, to his own ears he sounds very calm.

“But somehow, they did meet,” Odin’s voice is heavy. “We knew she had a boyfriend, we knew she was happy. But not... she never brought him over. We wouldn’t have minded, but she said it was better if she didn’t. I always wondered if maybe she had an intuition about him, or suspected something, even then,” His hands tighten into fists over his knees. “Well. After some time, she became pregnant.”

“With me,” Loki says. It’s easier, to listen to this as some story. Some fiction, a particularly dark fairy tale. But this is _real_ , this is real, and in a masochistic way Loki can’t keep listening as though this isn’t about— about him. 

Odin looks at him for a long moment. “Yes,” he says. “With you. She wasn’t very far along, not more than four months, when something changed. She wasn’t happy, any longer. She was afraid. She finally came to me, and asked me if the name ‘Peter Lukov’ meant anything to me.”

“How did she find out?”

“She overheard a conversation between him and a friend, one night. I’m not sure what made her think to take it to me. She was shy,” Odin looks at Loki sharply, nearly smiles. “She was embarrassed about her accent, so she didn’t talk much. But she was bright, very bright. She said, that Lukov had started to ask her more and more about her schedule. About the boys, and could he meet them sometime,” Odin closes his eyes against the remembered horror. “And it hadn’t felt right, she said. He’d started to frighten her, sometimes.”

Loki doesn’t say anything. 

“So, I called the police. But when they went to where he was staying, he was gone. She panicked, she wanted to go back home, she didn’t feel safe in the US anymore. She had seen enough, or guessed enough, to see that Lukov had powerful means of his own. Your mother and I agreed to help her get back to St. Petersburg, gave her some money, and she left.”

Odin sighs heavily. “Months passed. You were born. You can’t have been more than... more than a year old, when Alyona came back. She appeared at our house without warning, with a baby, she was terrified, she said Lukov had tracked her back to Russia and she had panicked, had taken the first plane back to DC. We said, of course, we would protect her. And her son. She left the baby with us, and went to go see a someone about renting a place to stay.

“She never made it back. There was a hit and run, outside the house. And she died.”

Loki doesn’t sink to the floor again, but it’s a close thing. Too much, this is all just _too much_. _How much more of this can I take?_

“He killed her?” Loki says. 

“There’s no way to know,” Odin says. “The police never had any luck with finding the car that did it; there were no witnesses. But I always thought that yes, probably. If not himself, then on his orders. He was a good lawyer, he got some very dangerous people out of jail who should have been locked away,” Odin’s tone warms at this, the old professional enmity rising in his voice, and Loki has to look away from him. “He made plenty of helpful friends.”

“And?” Loki says, after a moment. “What about the— what about me?”

“Your mother and I had to make a choice,” Odin says slowly. “Hand you over to be raised in the system, or take you in ourselves. We decided to keep you.”

He looks at Loki, as if that’s that. As if he thinks that could be enough. 

Which is just laughable, because how could that _possibly_ come even close to answering the questions that are now whirring through Loki’s brain, more and more of them until he can barely think?

“They said— they said ‘illegal adoption and naturalization,’” Loki says. “I was born in— In _Russia_ , I wasn’t your child, there was no way to—” He stops, looking at Odin in horror. “How many laws did you break, turning Lukov’s son into yours?”

Odin’s face twists. “If a child had just arrived in our home, if it was known that you were Alyona’s son, how long before Lukov would have figured it out? You had to become Loki Gard, and I,” he hesitates, looking down at the floor. “I made that happen.”

“You abused your power as Chief Justice of the Supreme Court,” Loki says slowly. “To protect the son of your— your _nanny?_ ” A thought strikes him, and he laughs. “How the _hell_ did no one question it, when Mom wasn’t even _pregnant?”_

Odin shrugs. “She took a leave of absence after Alyona left. She was afraid to leave your brothers alone, she rarely left the house. We had had— she had miscarried several times, after Thor was born, so we gave out that we had been too afraid to tell anyone, in case we ‘jinxed’ it,” Odin smiles, a little. “And the rest of the paperwork was no trouble.”

Loki stares at him. At the smile, until it fades. Until Odin’s looking at him again, sad and hurt and lost, and Loki can’t handle that anymore. He can’t handle his dad—no, not his dad, _never_ his dad. Because he wasn’t Loki Gard, He wasn’t Odin and Frigga’s son, he wasn’t—

“Thor and Baldr—” he says, though it comes out closer to a sob. 

“Thor was too young,” Odin says quickly, trying for comfort. But he hesitates, and Loki can tell what he’s going to say a moment before he says quietly, “But Baldr... he remembered Alyona.”

“Baldr knew?” Loki’s vision is swimming a little now, and the lump in his throat is back now. He sounds lost, his voice quavering out of control now. “He knew that I wasn’t really—”

“You were his _brother_ ,” Odin says fiercely, leaning forward. “And he loved you, Loki.”

Loki puts his head in his hands, curling in on himself. Too much, it’s all too much. 

“We all love you,” Odin says. “You are my son, you’re a part of this family, it doesn’t matter who—”

“ _It matters,”_ Loki’s head snaps up. “It matters, because my entire life is a _lie_. Everything I thought I was, everything you _taught_ me I was, it’s all _nothing_. I grew up as part of this family, and that has made me who I am. And now, now it’s all— it’s all based on a lie, on some fucked-up feud that— it matters, that fucking _Peter Lukov_ is my father, the man who, who was like the boogeyman to me, this _monster_ who— when Baldr first told me about him I didn’t sleep for a _week_ , I was too afraid that he would be there, waiting for me as soon as I turned out the lights and—”

 He looks at Odin. His chest is heaving, his eyes are burning and he might be crying but at this point he isn’t even sure. At this point, the whole thing feels like an insane nightmare, one that he’ll wake up from and be just Loki Gard again. But he isn’t Loki Gard. He never _was_ Loki Gard, and he can never, never be Loki Gard again.

“No,” Loki says, slowly. “No, this doesn’t make any sense. Why go to all that trouble? And put— not just your career on the line, you could go to _prison_ for something like this. Why do it?”

“You were just a baby,” Odin says, a pleading note coming into his voice which Loki has _never_ heard before, but is now unable to really register. “You were innocent, you didn’t deserve—”

“No, it doesn’t make any _sense_ ,” Loki snaps. “Why did you do it?”

Odin doesn’t say anything, his eye bright and coursing over Loki’s face. 

 _“Why?”_ Loki snarls. 

“If Lukov ever came back—” Odin starts to say, then clamps his mouth shut. He gets up from his seat on the toilet and turns, but the bathroom is too small to pace in, really. He can only take a few short steps before he has to turn back again. 

Loki’s face crumples in confusion as he watches him. Then, his expression clears. 

“Oh,” he breathes. “If Lukov ever came back... Oh. It was just the security you needed, wasn’t it? If he ever tried to hurt _your sons_ again, you would have _his_ ,” His voice is rising, thick with shock and anger. “Was that it, _Dad?_ Was that the master plan, to get one last bit of leverage over the man who took your eye? You took his _son_ , instead?”

“It’s not that simple, Loki,” Odin says. “That’s not what I meant—”

“All these years,” Loki says. “My whole _life_ , I’ve just been kept in reserve, to— to— to wait for him to show up, is that it? So that you could—” he stops, and takes an unsteady step away from the sink. “So that you could protect your _real_ family.”

Odin staggers back, as though Loki’s punched him. And he sits down heavily on the toilet seat again, like his legs won’t hold him up any longer. 

And that’s it. Loki looks at Odin for a long moment. He’s had that moment before, where he’s looked at his parents and been struck suddenly by their age, how they really don’t look the same as they did when he was younger, even if in his mind they haven’t changed since then at all. Looking at Odin, Loki sees him like he’s seeing him for the first time, the tidy white hair, the wrinkles set around his eyes and mouth. He is still the towering, powerful figure Loki remembers from his childhood. But he’s an old man, now. A sad, tired old man. 

Loki hates him. Just for a moment, in a hot flash that splits him from head to toe, but it’s a powerful moment and it leaves him reeling. 

“I have to go,” Loki says, choking on it, and he’s stumbling out the door while Odin says “Loki, _please—”_ and reaches for him, it sounds like it’s killing him. 

Loki doesn’t turn around, he keeps moving because he has to, and he honestly doesn’t know what he might do or say if he stays. 

Sif and Fenrir are waiting outside, Sif is on the phone with someone but hangs up without saying anything as soon as Loki comes out. He registers it, as something more to love her for later on, but he doesn’t have much emotional strength left to give to it proper notice now. 

“Can we go?” He says. His voice is raw, it sounds ripped to shreds, like he’s been screaming. He doesn’t think he has, but it’s certainly possible.

“Yes,” Sif says. “Fenrir’s taking you home, and he’ll stay with you, okay?” She says ‘okay’ in the way other people say ‘or else,’ “We can talk tomorrow.”

The campaign. Oh god, Thor. He honestly hasn’t given it much thought yet, but god, all those cameras. The reporters. The—

“Hey,” Sif says, cutting into his spiraling panic with her usual efficiency, and grabbing him by the upper arms. “No. None of that. It’s not important right now.”

Loki might look at her like she’s lost her mind. “Of course it is.”

“No,” she says firmly. “ _You’re_ important right now. I’ll call you later. You focus on taking care of yourself, alright?”

Before he can really respond Sif has squeezed him in a quick hug, before turning back and pulling out her phone. 

“Come on,” Fenrir says quietly, hand on Loki’s elbow, and starts leading him down the hall. “This goes out the back, we’ve got a car and everything, we’ll be out of here in five.”

“You guys have been busy,” Loki says dully, letting himself be led. 

Fenrir snorts, but doesn’t answer. Loki doesn’t try to talk anymore. He’s mostly focused on trying not to think. Not to think about anything. 

 

~

 

Baldr told Loki the story of Peter Lukov gouging their father’s eye out in the middle of a trial when Loki was around seven. He told it in gruesome detail, dwelling on the gush of blood and the screams and Lukov’s mad, cackling laughter. Details he’d definitely made up, because there was no chance that he’d heard them from anyone who’d actually been there. Loki had listened in wide-eyed horror, and shrieked when Baldr had suddenly leapt on him in an unexpected tickle attack. 

Loki will re-examine this memory, one of his very earliest, endlessly. He will look at it from every angle, from every possible vantage point. No matter how many times he looks at it, he can never see anything there but an older brother being an asshole, telling a scary story to his younger brother, just to be a jerk and freak him out. 

He never can decide if that’s a relief or not. 

 

~

 

Loki sends Fenrir home. He appreciates the thought, he says. But he really, really needs to be alone. 

Fenrir looks at him evenly. “Alright,” he says, finally. “But you call me. For anything, man. I’m serious,” Fenrir laughs, and rubs at his mouth. “There’s no chance I’m going to get sleep tonight anyway.”

There’s no way to thank him. Not for this, not for anything. Loki knows he should try, but he also knows anything like that is going to have to come later. So he pulls Fenrir into a hug, and shuts the door behind him without a word. 

Then he turns back around, and stares dull-eyed at his empty apartment. 

Everything’s as he left it. Bowl and spoon in the sink, oatmeal fully congealed in the bottom. Shoes kicked up against the wall next to the door, books littered over the kitchen table, the overall sense of an unused space thick in the air. It hasn’t felt like home in a while, maybe, what with the campaign and being so busy. But he hasn’t felt that it was any great loss before now. 

Still with one hand on the lightswitch, Loki closes his eyes against the sight of it. 

He’s not sure where the memory comes from, floating up through the fucking mess that’s the inside of his head right now, slowly clarifying into: _Because I can fool all of the people some of the time, but you— you’ve got it down to an art form. Stunning, actually._

Tony. Giving him a smile that’s edged with razor blades. _You don’t even know who_ you _are, do you?_

The tiredness, the grief he could feel chewing away at him throughout the entire dive back, they all fall away. Fury, white-hot and _blazing_ , takes their place. Did he— How much does—

Loki doesn’t bother to turn off the lights. He turns, yanks the door open, and takes the steps down two at a time. He doesn’t know what time it is really, he barely knows how he gets into a cab. But he’s clear when he tells the cabbie to go to Stark Tower, making sure his voice comes out all the kinds of calm and cool that he doesn’t feel at all. 

And again after he’s out of the cab and in Stark Tower, giving his name to the guard and affecting patience. Before the guard nods, and leads Loki to the private elevator that will take him up, up, all the way up to Tony. 

 _You don’t even know who_ you _are, do you?_

Son of a _bitch._

_What does Tony know?_

  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for the extended wait! I hope it was worth it, and that you don't want to kill me too badly. 
> 
> So many thanks to vilefangirl for this mind-blowing manip which exploded over tumblr, and to wrecked-anon for her feels-exploding Quorum fanmix. 
> 
> If anyone wants to say hi or yell at me (she says, with some trepidation) I'm sparklyslug on Tumblr too, and occasionally do behind-the-scenes posts and little ficlets and other such special features, if you have felt that the one thing your fic reading experience really needs is some me yelling at google docs and Robert Downey Jr's face.


	5. Chapter 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _“Loki,” he says slowly, looking at Loki like he’s worried he might bolt. “How are you doing?”_   
>  _“Great, Tony,” Loki says pleasantly, walking towards him. “Thanks for asking.”_   
>  _Then his hands are in the soft terrycloth lapels of Tony’s bathrobe, and he almost lifts Tony off his feet as he yanks him close._

  
[](http://imgur.com/8hqtgas)

It’s a long elevator ride. Mostly because Loki’s shaking with rage. 

He can’t do anything _about_ the rage. He has to stand there and listen to the gentle, repetitive _beep_ as the elevator rises and rises through Stark Tower. And consciously relax his hands, when he realizes that his fingernails are biting into his palms.

The doors slide open on the 57th floor, and Tony’s there waiting for him. 

He’s wearing a blue bathrobe over baggy, soft-looking black pants, and his feet are bare. His hair is rumpled, like he’s just changed. He’s not wearing glasses. 

“Loki,” he says slowly, looking at Loki like he’s worried he might bolt. “How are you doing?”

“Great, Tony,” Loki says pleasantly, walking towards him. “Thanks for asking.”

Then his hands are in the soft terrycloth lapels of Tony’s bathrobe, and he almost lifts Tony off his feet as he yanks him close. 

“Oof,” Tony’s hands lock around Loki’s wrists, and Loki doesn’t have time to track the way it sparks along his bones because this is the first time they’ve touched, the first time they’ve touched in years. He doesn’t have time to think about that at all, because he is standing over Tony and staring down at him, and he’s so angry he can barely breathe. 

_“What did you know about this?”_

Tony’s eyes are darting over Loki’s face, wide and shocked and somewhere between afraid and angry. “Loki, what are you—”

Loki shakes him a little, because he can, because it feels _great_ and he wants to shake that look right off of Tony’s face. “What you said. What you said to me, before. Did you know this was coming?”

“Loki—”

“Because maybe you talked to Barton, maybe you didn’t,” Loki says. “Or maybe you’ve known for— maybe you’ve known for _years_. And when I was last here, you told me I didn’t know who I was.”

“I didn’t—”

“You _did,_ ” Loki snarls. “I remember. I remember you saying it, you said ‘you don’t even know who you are,’ you—”

“ _Anymore_ ,” Tony says. He has to shout over Loki, his fingers tight and pressing hard against Loki’s rabbit-fast pulse. “I said you don’t know who you are _anymore,_ Loki.”

“What?” Loki frowns. The words don’t process; he stares into Tony’s face and wills them to change into something that makes sense. 

“I said, ‘you don’t know who you are anymore,’” Tony repeats. “I don’t know, Loki, I was pissed off, you were— I just meant, well, that you’ve lost sight of who you are. I was just being melodramatic about it. I do that. It made more sense in my head, I don’t know.”

Loki frowns, completely uncomprehending. 

“With— with your painting, not doing that anymore,” Tony says quietly. “Doing this, this campaign. The political thing. All this stuff for Thor. That’s what I was talking about, okay?”

“You didn’t—” Loki heaves in a great, shuddering breath. “You don’t know anything about this?”

“No,” Tony’s hands are looser around Loki’s wrists, and he’s not looking as scared. Loki’s so close to him, he could probably count Tony’s eyelashes from this distance, so there’s no way to miss the... the _sympathy_ in Tony’s eyes. “I had no idea. I’m sorry, Loki.”

He would stop the way his hands start to shake against Tony’s chest if he could. He definitely would check the way his breath burns out of him in a hitching nearly-sob, if he could. And he would certainly keep his eyes from burning and his throat from closing up. If he could. 

But he can’t. Rage has carried him this far. Without it. Without it, He’s got _nothing_. 

Loki sags forward. He can’t breathe, he can’t _breathe,_ and even the effort of holding himself up is suddenly too much. 

“Oh shit,” Tony lets go of Loki’s wrists and grabs him under the arms, trying to hold Loki up. But he’s hardly able to handle all of Loki’s weight, and all Tony can do is try to control it a little as they slump to the floor. 

Loki’s hands are tight in the robe, his eyes screwed shut now against the tears that fuck, _fuck_ , he can’t hold back anymore. He’s been holding it together for what, minutes? Hours? He’s lost all track of time during this hellish night, just trying to force everything back, and now he can’t outrun it anymore. All he can do now is let his head fall to the crook of Tony’s neck, maybe out of some last-ditch desire to keep Tony from seeing his face. But he can’t do anything to stop the _sounds_ he’s making, even though he tries, he tries so hard to grit his teeth around them. 

Because it’s really true. This is really all happening to him. Who he is, who he thought he was, all the fundamentals of his life that he’d been able to count on— had thought himself _lucky_ to be able to count on— they’re all gone. Utterly destroyed. 

How do you even react to a loss like that? How do you hold it together? You don’t, Loki is realizing, as he breaks down on the cold floor of Tony’s apartment. You don’t, and you can’t. All you can do is try to breathe, and try not to scream. And, apparently, completely lose control in front of the last person in the world that you want to see you like this. 

He’s trying not to register Tony’s proximity. Not the warmth of his skin or the way he’s holding Loki tightly now as Loki shakes apart. He _hates_ this. On top of everything else it’s absurdly unfair, to be in this situation with Tony. 

But even now, on the outside edge of his mind that isn’t wrecked beyond words, he’s grateful for the tight grip Tony has on him. Without it, there’d be nothing to ground him, nothing to be held down by, nothing to keep him from spiralling out of control completely. 

Tony doesn't say anything. For once. He just tightens his arms around Loki. And is silent. 

“God,” Loki says at last, though he doesn’t lift his head or open his eyes. “Sorry, I—”

“Come on,” Tony says, arms tightening around Loki for a moment. “Don’t be stupid.”

Loki wheezes out a humorless laugh. “Yeah, well, seems like that’s been a pretty big theme for tonight. Why stop now?”

“I didn’t—” Tony sighs. “I meant you don’t have to apologize. I get it.”

“Yeah,” Loki says dully. He pulls back, and is relieved that his body seems to be under his control again. Tony lets him go. “Thanks.”

He opens his eyes again. He doesn’t really want to. The picture that the two of them are making, sitting on the ground with Tony’s thighs pressed alongside Loki’s, Loki’s hands still in Tony’s bathrobe, is too embarrassing. But he has to start pulling himself together sometime, and sitting up and opening his eyes is a good place to start. 

And letting go of Tony’s robe, he should do that next. But as he had clung to it and dragged them both to the ground, he must have loosened the neck of the bathrobe. Tony’s tugging at it now, trying to get it back into place, but he doesn’t quite manage it before Loki sees—

“What is _that?_ ” Loki breathes.

Tony freezes, hands closed on the robe just over Loki’s. 

“Umm,” he says, and _wow_ , something that Tony isn’t instantly able to talk his way around. He's gone white, he's gone completely white. Loki wasn't sure people really did that, outside of Victorian gothic novels. 

Loki’s first impulse is to tug at the robe again. But he looks at Tony's face, and makes himself unclench his fingers and let it go. Tony watches as Loki folds his hands in his lap, and then looks up at Loki’s face. 

Something in Tony’s expression gives. He slowly drops his hands. With them go the sides of his robe. They part to expose his bare chest, and the great glowing blue circle that’s set in the middle of it. 

Which— Loki had seen the light, had had some advanced warning for what was coming but he hadn’t— there is no way to prepare for the sight of that thing set into Tony’s chest, the way his skin has scarred in ugly red and dark, bruised purple right up against it, like his body _knows_ that it’s wrong, that it shouldn’t be there. 

“ _Tony,”_ Loki gasps, reaching out to touch it without thinking, “What—”

Tony’s hand jerks up and locks around Loki’s wrist and squeezes _tight,_ tighter than he had when Loki was shouting into his face. He wasn’t panicked then, Loki realizes, nowhere near it. Because he wasn’t gripping Loki’s wrist like this before. 

Loki looks up into his face, and Tony’s eyes are shut tight now. His jaw works, and he takes a shallow breath in through his mouth. He holds up one finger of his other hand, a ‘wait’ gesture. 

Loki looks back down at— at the _thing_ — for another second, and then tries to pull his hand back. To his surprise, Tony won’t let him budge that way either. 

“Just—” Tony says, voice tight. Tight like Loki’s only heard it once before, in a dark basement and close against his back. “Just give me a second.”

He opens his eyes and looks at Loki. 

Loki’s leaning forward a little, and kneeling on the floor like this the height difference between them is negligible. The eerie light of the blue thing is painting crazy shadows on the underside of Tony’s jaw and over their two hands, and Loki wants to look at it again but he can’t make himself break eye contact. Tony’s face is still, almost slack. His expression would be totally at odds with the tension in Tony’s hand if it wasn’t for the look in his eyes. 

The apartment behind Tony is almost entirely dark. There’s just one light on in the foyer behind them, and another at the far end of the hallway leading to it. Everything is is more or less inky blackness, though Loki can see some of the lights of the city winking up at them through Tony’s wall of windows on the far side of the room.

It’s all completely quiet, something that Loki wouldn’t think could be as strange as it is; in this city you always get noise of _some_ kind. But there’s nothing up here. Some soundproofing trick of Tony’s design, maybe. Or maybe they’re just too high. 

Either way, the sound of Loki’s own breathing (still ragged, still only just barely back under his control) seems insanely loud. 

“Okay,” Tony says softly. Too softly to be heard if this apartment had the acoustics of a _normal_ New York City building. “Just. Uh. Go slow.” He laughs, a wobbly little one, and shakes his head. 

It’s another second before his fingers loosen around Loki’s wrist, but he doesn’t let go entirely. He keeps the tips of his fingers resting on Loki’s hand, and Loki lets it hang in midair for a moment before slowly moving it towards Tony’s chest. 

He’s not sure if he even wants to touch it anymore, to be honest. It was an impulse of a moment. Without thinking about it, he’d wanted to make sure that it was real, to put his hands in the wound, so to speak. In his right mind, any other day, it would be an impulse that he’d have squashed before lifting his hand at all. Unfortunately, it's this day. And he's pretty sure he's lost his mind, and it just hasn't caught up with him yet. 

It seems like, for all Tony doesn’t really _want_ Loki to touch the... whatever it is, he also doesn’t want Loki to _not_ touch it. Loki’s only comfort is that Tony appears to be as confused by the contradiction as Loki is. 

But after tonight... he feels like he owes it to Tony, in a way. 

Tony’s looking steadily at Loki’s face, so he shouldn’t really be able to tell when Loki’s fingertips make contact with the light buried in his chest. But he closes his eyes the instant they do, like it hurts him. His fingers are still loose around Loki’s wrist though, so Loki doesn’t pull his hand back. 

It feels something like glass, smooth and transparent. And it’s slightly warm to the touch, whether from its own energy or Tony’s body heat, Loki doesn’t know. Bending a little, Loki can make out individual parts: the circle within the circle, the spokes radiating out like some kind of wheel, and the blue light within it, so bright that Loki can’t look at it directly for long. It looks like it’s fitted into some sort of metal socket in Tony’s chest, and that has Loki swallowing heavily and sitting back on his heels and away from it. 

He looks back at Tony. His eyes are open but his head is tipped back a little, as though something on the ceiling has just become extremely interesting. 

“What is this?” Loki says quietly. And, when Tony doesn’t look at him or make any move to speak, “Tony, what happened?”

“Afghanistan,” Tony says. Confirming what Loki has already started to suspect, but hearing it still makes Loki flinch. “Uh. When the cars started exploding and stuff, something. Um. Exploded into me.”

Loki frowns, uncomprehending. Tony glances back at him, and then away again. 

“I have shrapnel in my heart,” Tony says. “Just a little, but hey, it turns out a little goes a long way when it’s poking into your aorta. And this. This keeps it from moving. And. From killing me.”

Loki’s fingers curl into a fist against the warmed, smooth surface of the device. 

“It’s not so bad,” Tony says, with a half-smirk that doesn’t convince Loki at all. “You should’ve seen the original. At least I’m not carting around a car battery.”

“And you’ve been— it’s been what, almost five years?”

Tony shrugs. “Thing’s got a pretty good shelf life. Doing okay so far, not to mention its other uses.”

“Other uses?” Loki stares at it, trying to imagine what _else_ it might be doing to Tony’s body. 

“Yeah. Like powering this entire tower, for one thing. Well, not this exact one. Looks pretty similar to big brother though.”

“This is an _arc reactor?”_

Tony looks at Loki, and comes close to the first genuine smile that Loki’s seen since his robe slipped off. “The very first one. Well, location-wise; a few upgrades have been necessary.”

“Tony,” Loki says, and it hurts just to say it, because it _hurts_ to look at this glowing parasite in this body, and it _hurts_ how Tony still is looking at him like he’s expecting Loki to... well, he’s not sure what, but clearly to do something terrible. “Tony, I’m so—”

Tony’s watching him closely now, something almost like confusion shading how he examines Loki’s face. Then he smiles again, a little cautiously. “It’s alright,” he says slowly. 

“It _is?”_

“Well, okay, it's not great,” Tony admits. “But I’m living with it. I’ve been living with it. It’s not— it doesn’t get in the way of, you know. Life.”

Loki raises his eyebrows at him. 

“Not much, anyway,” Tony snorts a laugh. His fingertips slide over Loki’s wrist, thumb coming up to press gently against Loki’s pulse. 

_Who else has seen this?_ Loki thinks. Pepper and Happy at least must know about this; the people who are a part of Tony’s daily life would probably have to know. But that’s not a big group of people. And Tony doesn’t seem like he’s done this— the showing of it, this presentation— before. Loki can’t say why he feels that as strongly as he does, but it’s there in Tony’s hands, in Tony’s eyes, in how his breath fans out over Loki’s face. 

Which of course, wakes Loki up a little. Specifically, wakes him up to the way Tony’s bathrobe is pushed open and down over his shoulders. To how Loki’s knee is resting in between Tony’s thighs. To how Tony’s eyes are—

It would be cruel to jerk back, though that is Loki’s first impulse. But he doesn't want to be cruel. Not tonight. So he pulls his hand back first, and Tony follows it with his own almost until Loki has it back in his lap.

“Yeah,” Tony says, and sits back on his heels. He looks at Loki for a moment, and then starts to pull the robe back up over his shoulders, a little hesitantly, like his fingers have gone clumsy. “Huh. Not exactly how I expected this night to go.”

“Really?” Loki asks dryly. 

“Half an hour ago I thought it was going to be just me, Jack, Jeeves, and Bertie all night long.”

Loki decides not to give him the satisfaction of asking who they are. Though he wonders distantly how surprised he would actually be if it turns out that Tony has three guys somewhere in the apartment right now. 

“Jack Daniels and Bertie Wooster,” Tony says, clearly having expected more of a reaction. 

“Bertie who?” Loki’s head aches; the synapses aren’t firing like they should. 

“I am actually ashamed to know you right now, wow,” Tony gets to his feet, and looks down at Loki. “Okay, new plan: we watch Jeeves and Wooster and get wasted. Sound good to you?”

After a split-second of hesitation, he offers his hand to help Loki up. 

A week ago, a night ago, he would have refused. Easily, in a moment, the old armor sliding into place under his skin. It's gotten a lot of practice, being around Tony lately as much as he has been. And always with one semi-conscious thought behind it: _not with him._ Loki isn't a messed-up kid anymore, he's learned to be vulnerable with others, learned how to let them in. But not Tony. Never Tony, never again. He thinks about it, thinks about it constantly.

Tonight, though, he's tired of thinking. 

Because he is lost. He’s adrift. And someone is reaching out to him. Not asking anything of him, and not offering anything to him but some distraction, some way to anchor himself again. 

It’s not rational, it’s not healthy, but TV and drinking seem like the best possible ways to deal with what is, with only two exceptions, the worst night of Loki’s life. 

He takes Tony’s hand. 

~

Loki never dreamed much. He’d been annoyed by it before, especially when Baldr would share his dreams over breakfast, complete with french toast sticks serving as castle walls and a spilled puddle of orange juice as ichor gushing from some evildoer’s guts. Baldr’d always had the most vivid dreams. It hadn’t been that surprising to any of them, when he’d turned to poetry. Frigga was mostly relieved that this manifestation of his artistic spirit didn’t ruin her colonial wooden table. 

Loki never dreamed much. The fragments that he remembered were nonsensical, bits and pieces that sounded incredibly dumb spoken out loud. Nothing worth sharing at the breakfast table. 

His nightmares, though. He always remembered them. And some of them put Baldr’s wildest visions to shame. 

But Loki never talked about them. 

~

Loki floats into consciousness, like coming up out of deep water. 

His neck aches. It’s kinked up against something hard and very un-pillowlike, his chin pressing into his chest. With a groan he rolls his head and lifts it from, yes, the arm of Tony’s couch. The arm of Tony’s very chic, modern, hard-as-a-rock couch. 

Sun streams over him, warm enough on the bare skin of his arms and his face to tell him that it’s much later than his usual wakeup hour of way-too-fucking-early. Loki closes his eyes against it, letting the light paint the insides of his eyelids red and black. It feels good, to be warm. His dreams had been cold. Cold and dark. 

He’s made it. Somehow, it’s the next day. Somehow, he is still sane. Still himself. Or close enough to what that used to mean, anyway. 

He’s also alone in Tony’s... living room? Office? There are too many rooms in this tower for there to be just one ‘living room,’ but this is the one where Tony houses his “Jeeves and Wooster” box set and his stash of Glenmorangie. He’d passed a whole bottle to Loki without a word, but it sits on the floor under the brushed metal coffee table, still mostly full. Drinking to oblivion has never really been Loki’s style. Last night he’d figured it would be probably the worst possible time to change that. 

With a grunt, he eases himself up. His jacket, vest, and tie had come off at various points during the night; they’re nowhere to be seen. There’s not drinking to oblivion, and then there’s still drinking enough to decide that your layers of Hugo Boss are just _too hot_ over your skin. Tony hadn’t argued as Loki had shrugged them off, just laid his eyes over Loki like— 

There’re two buttons undone on his shirt. Just two. Loki touches the soft cotton dip of his exposed undershirt, the skin beneath it smooth and warm and unbroken. Something he’s never been moved to think about: the reassuring pressure of his fingertips against his sternum, the solid completeness of his own flesh. 

He shakes his head and drops his hand. He needs a glass of water. And some aspirin. And possibly to find his phone. Though he’s not sure if he wants to check it for messages or to plunk it into the glass of water. 

“Umm, hello?” He says to the air, not sure how this really works. “Can— is Tony the only one who can talk to you?”

_< Good morning, Sir. I had been instructed not to speak to you until spoken to, but now that Mr. Stark’s ably-phrased parameters have been met, I will respond to any instructions you give me.>_

“Right,” Loki says slowly. “Okay. Is Tony awake?”

_< He is attempting to make juice at this very moment. Out the door and to the left, sir.>_

“Thank you,” he has no idea what standards of politeness apply to house AIs, but something about that flawlessly posh British voice puts him on his best behavior. “And would you happen to know where my phone and the rest of my... where my jacket is?”

_< Your jacket, vest, and tie are on the table in the foyer. Your phone is in your pocket. It would appear that you have 14 missed calls.>_

Loki closes his eyes for a moment. “Monitoring my calls?”

_< Monitoring the environment of the suite, sir. And your ring tone is quite... noticeable.>_

Tony would design an AI that talks like that. Loki doesn’t respond, just heads out of the room. After a moment’s hesitation, he turns left. 

Given the information that Tony’s ‘making juice,’ Loki expects to hear the shriek of a blender (best case scenario. Worst case, he expects to hear a lot of shrieking) as he heads down the hallway. But the first thing he hears is the tin-can babble of TV voices, turned down so low that he can only make them out when he’s standing in the doorway.

“...by the hasty departure of Senator Gard and his family from the Senator’s own event,” Loki places the voice before he can see the face flickering over Tony’s disconcertingly frameless TV, the image apparently hovering in midair over the marble-topped table: Jessica Jones. She’s familiar to Loki, but she hadn’t been at the press conference the night before. Loki suspects he’ll categorize all journalists he knows in that context from now on. 

“Posted during the benefit’s press conference by Mother Jones, Barton’s piece cites multiple sources claiming that Loki Gard is in fact the son of Peter Lukov, the former Washington DC District Court attorney. Lukov gained national notoriety for maiming Chief Justice Odin Gard when Gard was a judge for the District Court in the mid-80s. The unnamed sources claim that Loki was adopted illegally by the Gard family, all legal documents...”

Tony’s sitting at the island in the kitchen, his back to Loki. There’s a tablet _and_ a laptop _and_ what Loki suspects are the guts of a blender in front of him (only the glass container is still remotely recognizable as belonging to a blender), but his attention is focused on the TV screen. 

“I think the biggest question here is what this means for Senator Gard’s campaign,” Jessica Jones says, voice calm, eyes calm, like she doesn’t even know Thor. Has never met him, has never gone out for a beer with Loki and Thor together after a briefing, has never—

Loki forces himself to take a deep breath, as she says, “but it also poses an interesting question as to what will happen to Loki Gard now that his citizenship has been proven to be a lie.”

Tony snorts, and leans back in his seat. “‘Interesting question,’” he mutters under his breath, and throws a fiddly-looking piece of metal from the pile in front of him at the TV. It sails right through it. “JARVIS, change the channel to Spongebob or some shit.”

_< Escapism via animation it is, sir. Burying your head in the sand?>_

“Just so you can admire my ass,” Tony says distantly, having already turned his attention back to the used-to-be blender. He picks up the glass basin and deftly unscrews the bottom section which holds the blades. He doesn’t look up at the TV (now on to Scooby Doo, what looks like one of the original episodes judging by the animation quality) or the laptop or tablet. His head is bowed over what he’s doing, clever fingers feather-light as he removes the blades and holds them thoughtfully in the palm of one hand. 

Loki rests his head against the door frame. The sense of unreality, that he’s here, doing this, is faded. Still there, but maybe just dulled against everything else. There’s no point in being surprised anymore that everything’s come to this, to standing here in his bare feet and watching as Tony grabs an orange from a pile of fruit next to him, deftly peels it, and bites into it. There’s no point to thinking how different this is from where he was, where they were, yesterday, last week, last month. Nothing in his life will be the same as it was yesterday, last week, last month. And that has nothing to do with Tony. It’s not limited to him. If Loki had gone to Fenrir’s after all last night, it would feel the same. 

The way he’s looking at Tony now. How he takes in his hands. The shifting muscles of his shoulders. His hair sticking out at the nape of his neck, still a little damp-looking from a shower or a workout. It’s not— It would be the same if—

Loki could close his eyes. Could turn away. But he doesn’t. Instead Loki watches as Tony spits an orange pit into the glass bowl, and drops the fruit to take up another mass of gears and wires. The windows of this room extend from floor to ceiling, as they seem to do everywhere in this house. The perks of designing your own place if you can’t stand the dark, Loki realizes, looking now at how the light frames Tony’s back and sides. And who would think anything was weird about that, for a New York City penthouse to have whole walls of windows? Loki certainly hadn’t, and that was even after that little scene in Sif’s basement. 

There are things he wants to ask Tony. Things he needs to ask. Because there’s that blue thing, an actual arc reactor— like the one that powers Stark Tower, powers more and more of New York, shit, powers the building that houses Thor’s campaign headquarters— in Tony’s _body_. Someone caused it to be there. And someone scared that look into Tony’s eyes, when he’d grabbed Loki’s hand to stop him from touching it. Loki wants to know who that person is. He wants to know a lot of things, but most of all he wants to know who’s responsible for how tightly Tony’s hand had locked over Loki’s wrist. 

On Tony’s TV Shaggy walks backwards into what looks like a monster made of seaweed, and leaps forward with a loud “Yoinks!” Tony chuckles without looking up, still bent over his gears and wheels and bits of metal, the half-eaten orange sitting (probably forgotten) at his elbow. In an odd little half-movement, he starts to turn his head to the right a little. Towards Loki. He seems to stop himself before Loki can properly see his face, and with a soft laugh Tony turns back to the screen. 

Tony knows that he’s there, Loki realizes. Though Loki can’t guess how long he’s known. 

He wants to ask Tony more about his arc reactor. About last night. About a lot of things, if he can dare to be honest with himself at this point. Just because there’s a lot about Tony that just doesn’t... doesn’t make sense. 

Loki can’t quite get up the nerve to ask about any of it. He’s feeling ridiculously exposed just now. Or maybe just ridiculous. Bare-footed, no vest or tie, hair probably a mess like it usually is when he sleeps on a couch. He has no desk to stand behind, no cuffs to adjust, no... no campaign to discuss. 

Tony puts down the tangle of wires he’s been tinkering with, then presses his hands down flat against the tabletop, head bowed a little. A stabilizing gesture, maybe. He doesn’t turn around. 

Last night, Tony had offered Loki his hand. Last night, hurting and heartbroken and shocked beyond words, Loki had taken it. 

And this morning, he isn’t ready to deal with that. Not on top of everything else. 

He turns. Hesitates. And leaves. 

As JARVIS has promised, his jacket, vest, and tie are all neatly folded on the table in the hallway. His shoes are resting under them, and he steps into them as the elevator doors slide open in front of him, before he’s even pressed the button to call it up. He throws on his vest and jacket and buttons neither, just stuffing the tie in his pocket next to his cell phone 

Before the doors slide shut, from what sounds like right in the foyer, though he can’t see anyone, he hears:

< _Sir, I— >_

“I know.”

And then the elevator doors shut fully. Loki stares blankly at the metal in front of him as the elevator begins to ping its way down from Tony’s private perch on top of Stark Tower. 

He can’t seem to focus his thoughts on anything. So he gives up trying, and just closes his eyes until he reaches the lobby. 

~

JARVIS had been right. Loki’s missed 14 calls. He listens to the messages blankly as he walks away from Stark Tower, nothing in his face drawing notice from any of the pedestrians he passes. 

When he gets to the last one he stops, and looks down at his phone. Fenrir. Sif. Thor. His— his parents. They’re at the top of the list of those who he should call back. But the effort involved in just raising his thumb to tap at one of those names is too exhausting even to contemplate. 

Then Loki realizes that he’s standing still in the middle of the sidewalk. The flow of people pass easily around him, most not even bothering to glance at whatever idiot is committing this capital crime against the city’s sidewalk laws. Loki moves to the side, heading for the shadow of the nearest office building. Just another man in a suit and dark hair; he won’t draw any notice. 

His phone goes off again in his hand, not with a call but with a text message. 

_Message from: Tony Stark_

_If you want/need to come back, I’ll be here._

Loki rocks forward a little. Not quite as if he’s been punched, more like a sharp wind has just hit him that he wasn’t prepared for. And here he was, thinking he’d already braced himself for everything Tony could throw at him. He probably should have known better. 

And he probably has more important things to think about than this. Because he won’t want _or_ need to go back. What he does want, and what he does need, is to start piecing his life back together. 

He sucks in a deep breath, going back to his missed calls and looking again at the names. Another moment of hesitation, and then his thumb falls on Fenrir’s name. 

He’s allowed himself a night of weakness. He straightens his spine as the phone rings, old armor falling back into place. Now it’s time to go back to work. 

-

Loki liked bars in Berlin. More specifically, he liked the one six blocks over from the American Embassy: close enough for him to walk over after work, and far enough away for him to feel like he was still definitely _out_ of the office. 

Not that work didn't occasionally follow him there. 

"Loki!" A hand fell on his shoulder, hard enough that it can only belong to Ben Grimm. Easy to dismiss as a big dumb lug with a rich dad who'd passed him the Deputy Chief of Mission positio at an early age, if you could decipher his thick New York accent enough to realize that the bastard was smart. Smarter than the Ambassador, to be honest, which probably had something to do with how often Richards was out of the office. 

"Hey Ben," Loki turned in his bar stool, and was drawn up instantly by the sight of the man standing next to the deputy. 

Tall, very tall. Though everyone looked small next to Ben, it was clear that he was built on powerful lines, with his broad shoulders and the way the hand he holds out for Loki to shake so fully encompasses Loki's own. 

"Victor Von Doom," the man said, grey eyes fixed on Loki's. There was a thin white scar running down the side of his face, and Loki realized that he's seen this man before. 

"Loki Gard," Loki said, holding the eye contact. "We're a long way from Latveria, your highness."

The Crown Prince and heir to the throne of Latveria smiled. "Not so long of a way, Mr. Gard," he said. His accent was almost invisible, nothing more than a rough lilt lingering around his vowels. "Europe is not so sprawling as your United States. I can spend my day in four different countries, all without paying my helicopter pilot overtime.”

“Call me Loki, please,” Loki said. “You pay your staff overtime?” 

“Only a figure of speech,” Victor said. 

“Are you ladies gonna make moony-eyes at each other all night, or are we gonna drink?” Ben said, before negotiating his bulk onto the somewhat spindly-looking stool next to Loki. 

Victor took the stool on Loki’s other side. And leant in close as Ben signaled the bartender. 

“I see no reason why we can’t do both,” Prince Victor said. “Let me buy you a drink?”

Loki was above being star-struck. He had in fact caused _others_ to be star-struck, and fairly often. He graduated from a great school, he was studying politics at the graduate level in one of Europe’s most amazing cities and working his ass off at an incredibly high-powered job in the American Embassy. He was capable. And brilliant. He was not only the friend and relative of powerful people, but was well on his way to becoming one himself. 

But he was also 24 years old, and Prince Victor von Doom had his hand on the back of Loki’s chair, his thigh brushing against Loki’s like it was an accident. It clearly wasn’t.

“Sure,” Loki said. He let himself lean into Victor’s space a little. “Though I’m sure you’ll find my taste in beer is pretty embarrassing.”

“Should you wish to order a Bud Light, I promise a swift and cruel punishment,” Victor said. “But I’ll buy it for you just the same.”

His hand slid from Loki’s chair to rest lightly on Loki’s back. 

Loki didn’t mind. 

~

There are news vans outside of his apartment. 

Vans. With satellite dishes on top of them. 

Half a block away, Loki sits frozen in his seat. One hand is still on the door handle, like there’s still hope that he can actually get out of the car. That maybe he’ll just blink it all away, and he can walk up to his door and go home. 

He blinks. There are still three news vans in front of him. And at least four reporters per van, milling around and looking bored. 

“Wow,” Fenrir says, knuckles tight over the steering wheel. “Uh, okay. They weren’t there this morning.”

“Think someone saw us at the Plaza after all?” Loki asks. He slowly takes his hand off the handle. And brings it up to rub at his eyes. Because he is tired. He’s exhausted. And the grim reality is breaking over him that there is nowhere for him to rest that he can reach without wading through shrieked questions and exploding camera flashes. 

He’s had enough of that. He’s had enough of that for one weekend, for one year, for one lifetime. 

“Must have,” Fenrir mutters. “Maybe they heard the manager tell us about the press snoops. Or just figured it out for themselves, when we left like that. Slide down in your seat a little.”

Loki does, feeling pretty undignified, as Fenrir guides his car back into the flow of traffic. But it hasn’t exactly been a morning for dignity. Given how he woke up. Given how he’d practically fled from Tony’s place, like the most high-profile walk of shame ever. And given how he’d been to three hotels and called another four, each one either telling him the same thing or lying about it unconvincingly enough to make it clear: every member of the Associated Press, as well as freelancers, bloggers, gawpers, and general politico enthusiasts, is doing their damnedest to follow up on the political scandal of the decade. 

He can sort of understand. The dedication of some of the reporters (and the funds they were willing to spend, judging by the silence they had tried to buy) is admirable. Or would be, if that dedication wasn’t barring him from his own fucking apartment. 

“Let’s go into the office,” Loki says, voice low even though he knows no one outside can hear him. 

Fenrir laughs hollowly. “Yeah, right.”

It’s hard to shoot him a glare when Loki has his chin pressed against his chest and his neck at a severely awkward angle, but Loki tries for it anyway. 

“What’s wrong with that? We need to work.”

“What work do you think we’re going to get done today?” Fenrir asks. He glances quickly over Loki’s head at the news vans, and speeds up as soon as they get past. “Okay, no one even looked up from their phones. We’re good.”

“We have a _lot_ of work to get done today,” Loki says, pushing himself back up. “Are you nuts? Damage control is—”

“—Isn’t possible today, Loki,” Fenrir says. “I was in the office all morning. Trust me.”

“Not possible? Why?”

“Because we’re fucking _under siege,_ is why,” Fenrir hisses. “The whole building was mobbed, from five a.m. on. And it didn’t matter how many times we called security, reporters just kept finding their way in, asking for comments, trying to get sound bites. One cornered me in the bathroom. _The bathroom,_ Loki. At _six a.m._ ”

“Shit,” Loki says. He considers laughing, but doesn’t have the energy for it. 

“I sent basically everyone home,” Fenrir says. 

“But you can’t, we need—”

“Loki,” Fenrir says firmly, but not unkindly. “Thor’s not coming in. You’re not coming in. Our outgoing phone banks were swamped with people asking about this, tying up the lines. Every media outlet with a camera is pointing it at us. And I think Twitter’s actually crashed twice since last night.”

Loki balls his hands into fists.

“I’m not saying that’s it for good,” Fenrir says. “I’m saying that’s it for today. We’ll take the rest as it comes.”

“Right,” Loki says. He looks out the window, watching the familiar block passing by. It happens to be the route he usually takes to the subway. He wonders if that little tidbit has got out yet. Are there cameras aimed at his preferred entrance? His favorite bodega around the corner? How much of his daily life is being dissected now, turned over so it can be turned into another headline? He’s been famous. But never as instantly recognizable as his father. Never as visible as Thor has had to become over the course of this campaign. 

He suspects that all changed last night. 

“So barring going into the office,” he says, trying to ignore how it aches, “What can I do?”

Fenrir shoots him a look. “You’re asking me?”

“Yes, Fenrir, I’m asking you,” Loki’s temper flares up, closer to the surface than it ever normally is. “Since clearly you already know so much more about what should be done than I do.”

Fenrir can’t miss the anger, but he seems to let it slide right off him and his voice is level and calm. “As far as the campaign goes, I say give it another day or so. Don can step in until then; he’s been doing alright today, talking to reporters as the official voice of the campaign. It looks good for the assistant campaign manager to be in touch with the press, makes them feel all connected and warm and fuzzy inside.”

Loki almost smiles. “So what’s he telling them?”

“That we’re looking into it,” Fenrir sighs. “That we’re going to find out what’s going on, and that this is by no means the end of the campaign.”

 _Isn’t it?_ Loki pushes the thought away, as he’s been doing for the past 12 hours or so. “And that we weren’t hiding it from everyone, I hope.”

“That too, for sure,” Fenrir says. “Though not too many people doubt that. Anyone looking at the footage of your face—”

Loki turns to look out the window again.

“Sorry, sorry,” Fenrir sighs, after a moment that quietly cuts Loki to ribbons. “I don’t—”

“So while Don fields the press, what do I do?”

Fenrir shrugs. “You lie low. For a few days, at least. Maybe a week.”

“A _week?_ ” That’s ages, in campaign time. He hasn’t had a weekend off in _months_ , because just two days is too much time away from their work. Five days? Seven? How can the campaign even survive without him for that long?

Though a few days off can’t do more damage to this campaign than he’s already done. 

“Just until we get our feet back on the ground, you know, pulling everything back together,” Fenrir goes on, possibly oblivious to how Loki’s sunk a little further down in his seat. “It might not be that long. But practically, it’s going to be hell for you just trying to get around. Even in the city.”

Loki’s phone goes off in his pocket, and he absently pulls it out before he remembers that he’s avoiding more or less every one of his contacts. 

_Incoming Call: Thor_. 

He holds his phone in the palm of his hand, looking down at it. Fenrir glances quickly at Loki, and down at the phone for a moment, but he still doesn’t say anything. 

Thor. He doesn’t even know what happened after he left the benefit. If Thor had to face all those reporters alone, or if he managed to get out before everything got messy. Well. Messier. And Loki wants— he knows Thor didn’t know about it. Any of it. But he still can’t make himself answer. He can’t. 

The phone falls silent. Loki blinks, and lets his phone fall back into his lap. 

“I can’t go back to my apartment,” Loki says quietly. “I can’t go to the office. I can’t go to Thor. Or to. Anyone else.”

“Hey now,” Fenrir says, just as quietly. “You can stay with me as long as you want man, you know that.”

Loki tries to rub the burning feeling out from behind his eyes. It doesn’t really work. “I really appreciate that, Fenrir. But you have the nosiest neighbors known to man. And if I have to spend more than a day locked up in that attic you call an apartment I will actually lose my mind.”

Fenrir smiles. It’s not the first time Loki’s given him shit for the practical closet he insists on living in. Or that Loki’s been appalled by the extremely un-New Yorker-like involvement the old couple on the floor below have in Fenrir’s life. “Mrs. Lloyd would probably make you pie,” Fenrir says. Which just proves Loki’s point in the worst way. 

“I hate pie,” Loki says. His phone starts to buzz in his lap again, and he knocks it to the floor of the car without looking at the screen. It lands on its face so he can’t see who’s calling. But he can feel the vibration of it through his shoes. 

“Well, then what do you think?” Fenrir says. 

Loki takes a deep breath. “There’s one place I can go. Where I know no one will find me.”

“Yeah? How do you know that?”

“Because they didn’t find me this morning.”

Fenrir accidentally stomps on the brake a little too hard as a cab slides in front of them. “Are you _serious_?”

“Ow,” Loki says, rubbing at where the seatbelt dug into his shoulder. 

“Because remember how it’s _Tony Stark_ you’d be going back to? The guy who’s been a pain in your ass for nearly the last month, and who’s been like, Monster under the Bed of Bad Relationships for almost a decade before that?”

“Hey, I—”

“The guy who basically blackmailed you into letting him into the campaign? The guy who almost moved in to headquarters? The same guy that you said, that you said you didn’t trust not to exploit one moment of emotional vulnerability? The guy who—”

“Fenrir, I have never in my life been more emotionally vulnerable than I was last night,” Loki says, voice rising to cut Fenrir off. “ _Never_. And you know what Tony did? He put on some weird British TV show and gave me something to drink and _didn’t touch me.”_

If anything, Loki had touched him. He’d yanked Tony up by the labels of his bathrobe and pulled him to him. He’d reached out to touch the arc reactor. Tony had reacted. And Loki had acted without thinking. But Loki had made the move first. And Tony hadn’t pushed it past that. He hadn’t taken that further step, though who knows, maybe he could have. 

Fenrir glances at him again, frowning. 

“I’m serious,” Loki says. “I’m not saying that he’s my first choice. If there was another option, I’d take it. But he lives at the top of a tower. Like, literally a tower. And he hasn’t got a moat, he’s got state-of-the-art defense and truly intimidating security. No one gets in there without Tony knowing about it. And honestly, not many people would expect me to be there in the first place.”

“Alright, alright,” Fenrir sighs. “Just, you know, the benefit’s over. If Tony’s in your life now, it’s not because it’s necessary for the campaign. Do you get what I’m saying?”

Loki doesn’t answer. Fenrir doesn’t seem to expect him to. 

~

He knew there was a stereotype that he should have been fulfilling. He’d waited for it to hit him, after Victor had calmly and clearly explained that as the heir to the Latverian throne, certain things were expected of him. And Loki very clearly did not fit into any of those expectations. Loki wasn’t sure which was worse; that he was a man or that he was American. But either way, this thing that was happening between them was a secret. 

And honestly, he didn’t mind. He knew he should have, maybe. It seemed logical, right? To have to be the secret relationship, to have to be lied about, smuggled in, kept out of sight. It should have been upsetting. 

It wasn’t. 

Mostly, it was hot as hell. 

“ _Fuck_ ,” Loki hissed. They had actually made it to the bed this time, which was a nice change. The sheets were cool and soft, some ridiculously high thread count probably, and clenched so tightly in Loki’s fists that he was probably wrinkling them beyond all repair. Though given how Victor was working his dick, slow and methodical with one big hand, a little wrinkling was going to be the least of the damage done here. 

“Shhhh,” Victor said, sounding as calm and as put together as he always did. Which was impressive, given how he was driving into Loki. Slow, matching the pace he was setting with his hand, but so deep and steady that Loki’s arms were shaking and he had to slide down onto his elbows. He rested his head on one arm, panting into the sheets. 

Victor’s other hand was tight over his hip, maybe tight enough to leave bruises. It had happened before. Victor had liked that. 

“How,” Loki managed, “do you expect me to ‘shhh’?”

“I expect you to do what I tell you to,” Victor said smoothly. Before Loki can answer _that_ (not as articulately as he’d be able to in other circumstances, but with something), Victor sped up, slamming into Loki and surprising a moan out of him. Loki pushed back against Victor, and smiled when he felt Victor’s breath stuttering against his back. Then Victor adjusted and really started moving his hand over Loki’s cock, and Loki lost any kind of focus at all. 

When they finished, Victor didn’t stick around. He showered, kissed Loki, and with a, “I’ll be back in Berlin in two weeks,” he left. 

Loki felt like he should have minded. He didn’t. Usually, he just went to sleep. 

And if he sometimes thought of lying curled up in bed with... someone, laughing and talking quietly until it was almost dawn. Well. It was just a stupid thought. Didn’t mean anything. 

~

When Tony sees Loki step out of the elevator, he actually giggles. Nervously. And quickly stifles it. But yeah, that was definitely a giggle. 

“You’re back,” he says. He looks more or less exactly as he had this morning, with the addition of band-aids on four of his fingers and some kind of oil or grease spread over the bridge of his nose. “Not going to rip my clothes off me again, are you? Oh, hi, Fenrir.”

Fenrir steps out from behind Loki, and glares at him. 

“It’s not— That’s not what happened,” Loki says, scowling at Tony. 

“It’s kind of what happened,” Tony says. 

“ _Really_ ,” Fenrir says. “Yeah, this was a great idea, Loki.”

“What idea?” Tony looks like he’s recovered a little. But still keeps blinking at Loki as though he’s expecting Loki to vanish. 

Loki puts his hands in his pockets. Granted, he hadn’t exactly had a plan for how this conversation was going to go. But he’d hoped (naively, stupidly, _idiotically)_ that it would be going a little more smoothly than this. 

“You said—” Loki begins, when a voice from further inside Tony’s apartment cuts him off. 

“I’ve got Hel on the line, Tony, can you—” Pepper walks into view, then stops when she sees Fenrir and Loki. And stifles a laugh. Which... is kind of worrying. “Oh, hello Mr— Loki. Fenrir.”

“Hi Pepper,” Fenrir says. 

“Hi, Pepper,” Loki sighs. 

“I said what?” Tony says, not looking away from Loki. 

“Tony,” Pepper says firmly, all business again as she extends the phone to Tony. “Hel. Remember?”

“Oh, right,” Tony says, taking the phone from Pepper. He turns to head back out of the foyer, after one last slightly stunned-looking glance at Loki. 

Pepper watches him go, expression unmistakably fond. 

“Okay,” Fenrir says, “Seriously, I think your story of what happened here last night was _really_ abridged.”

“It probably wasn’t,” Pepper says, gesturing for them to follow her into the apartment. “He’s just having a particularly Tony-ish moment. How are you two doing?”

The ‘fine’ is almost past Loki’s lips when he looks at her, and realizes that she actually means it. 

“It’s been a pretty awful day,” he says, because her sincerity apparently is enough to surprise the truth out of him. That, and he recognizes the room they’ve just entered: it’s the wide open living space that had been the scene of Tony’s pre-benefit get together. No pizza, no elaborately stocked bar, and no horde of CEOs and hedgefund managers, but still recognizable. 

“I’m sorry,” she says, resting a hand briefly on his arm. She smiles at Fenrir. 

“I’m alright,” Fenrir says easily, sinking onto the couch. “Just trying to keep the wheels from coming off.”

“I know the feeling, trust me,” Pepper says. 

Loki hasn’t sat down. He walks over to the window instead, putting the familiar room to his back. It hasn’t even been a week. Just a couple of days ago that he was last in this room. Schmoozing bigwigs with Sif. Drinking wine and talking about the campaign’s prospects. Fighting with Tony in a warmly-lit room lined with books. Remembering it, it’s like watching a movie starring a stranger. It doesn’t feel like him at all. 

He doesn’t turn around when Tony comes into the room. 

“She’s coming over,” Tony says to Pepper. “What did I say?”

“What did you say when?” Pepper asks, but Tony’s talking to Loki, Loki knows without even turning around. 

“You said I could stay here,” Loki says. He can just make out the dim lines of his own reflection in the window. It’s too bright outside to be anything more than just a suggestion of his nose, jaw, and the dark line of his shoulders in the jacket he’s been wearing for almost 24 hours now. The line isn’t as sharp as it had been when he’d put the jacket on yesterday. Nothing about him is as sharp as it was yesterday, really. 

He can’t see anyone else in the room in the window, can only guess that Tony’s coming closer because of how his voice sounds.

“Yeah,” Tony says, “yeah, I did.”

He wonders why neither Pepper nor Fenrir are saying anything. But he presses on anyway. “My apartment’s under siege. According to Fenrir, the campaign headquarters is basically overrun. And there’s a price on my head, or what amounts to one as far as the press goes. I can’t stay in any hotels without risking someone popping out of the minibar with a microphone and a camera.”

He turns. Tony isn’t as close as he’d guessed him to be; he’s on the other side of the couch Fenrir and Pepper are sitting on, but leaning back against it a little. It would be comedic, how Pepper and Fenrir are oriented on either side of Tony, all of them looking at Tony, if Loki wasn’t so far beyond finding anything comedic right now. 

“There’s nowhere else I can go.”

Tony’s face does something very complicated very quickly, as though he’s just been utterly blindsided by this and didn’t have the advance warning to get his face under control. It’s not a happy look, not even close. It might be closer to panic. Or maybe it’s just shock. Which Loki can understand. He can’t believe he’s here; he can’t imagine how strange it is for Tony. 

“You really—” Tony says, then stops. His jaw works a little, before he seems to relax through some force of will. He huffs out a self-deprecating laugh. “Yeah, I guess that makes sense. I didn’t even—”

“We can get you clothes, toiletries, whatever you need,” Pepper says. 

“Thank you,” Loki says, to Pepper. And then, to Tony, “Thanks.”

Tony puts his hands in his pockets. It’s hard not to look as his chest, now that Loki knows what’s there. He can’t see the bright blue light now, but it looks like Tony’s only wearing the one black t-shirt. Some kind of cap, then. 

But Loki’s not focusing on Tony’s chest. He looks up into his face, and sees how Tony squares his shoulders. Sees how he smiles at Loki. It’s a camera-ready smile, one that Loki can pretty easily identify as fake now. 

“Actually, this works out great,” Tony says. “I invited an old buddy over for lunch, maybe you’d like to get her opinion on this whole thing.”

Loki’s shoulders go rigid. “I don’t really want to see anyone, Tony,” he says. 

“You want to see her,” Tony says, firmly. 

Loki opens his mouth, heat rising over his neck and ears, but surprisingly, it’s Pepper who draws him up short. “This will help, Loki,” she says. “Tony and I’ve talked it over, and we really think this is a good idea.”

Loki looks at her, more than a little thrown. 

She smiles, and raises her eyebrows. “Do you really think Tony would bring anyone here who would hurt you?”

“Well, if you’re going to stay here,” Tony says, too loud and turning to face Fenrir and Pepper, putting his back to Loki, “we should probably work out some scheme so you’re not wearing the same ‘English Professor according to GQ’ outfit every day. Pepper?”

“Right,” Pepper says, getting gracefully to her feet as Fenrir says “English professor?”

“Come on, he’s like a step away from elbow patches and a battered copy of ‘Catcher in the Rye,’ look at that hair,” Tony says, as Pepper heads off to the far side of the room, already talking quietly into her phone. 

“I hate that book,” Loki points out, fighting the impulse to check and make sure elbow patches and tweet haven’t sprouted over his Hugo Boss jacket. 

“I know,” Tony says, shooting him a shit-eating grin. 

A reference to the past they never talk about, and one that Loki shouldn’t let slide. Because he hasn’t before. He’s lit up with fury at the nerve of Tony even coming close to that territory, glaring Tony into stuttering silence every time it’s happened. 

The fury isn’t there right now, though. He’s just... Tony’s still wearing the clothes from this morning, standing in front of him in his _socks_ , and only hours after somewhat literally putting his life in Loki’s hands. Well. Letting Loki put his hand on what’s keeping Tony alive, anyway. And Loki is still angry. He is always angry at Tony. But right now he’s mostly confused. And still struggling to find his balance in a world that is no longer playing by the rules. 

So he doesn’t glare. He’s not sure what it looks like, as he adjusts the angle of his vest and glances away over Tony’s head, but whatever they can read in Loki’s face makes Fenrir’s eyes go a little wide and Tony’s shit-eating grin ease into something that’s more honestly pleased. If still a little wary. 

“Do you have any coffee? Or has it gone the way of the blender?” Loki asks. 

“JARVIS is under strict orders to kill me instantly if I touch the espresso machine,” Tony says, if still a little slowly, like his mind is elsewhere. “Pepper’s got a few too many overrides, if you ask me. But yes, coffee I can do.”

Loki looks at Fenrir, expecting a frown, or some eye-rolling. But Fenrir has his chin in his hand, and is looking thoughtfully at Loki.

Loki turns back around and stares out the window. All that light reflecting off of the office windows in the nearby buildings is a little hard to look at, but he makes himself do it anyway. 

~

“Hey, kid,” Ben says, somehow navigating bis broad shoulders through the narrow door of Loki’s office. “What’re you working on?”

“A report to Reed on—”

“Sounds like bullshit,” Ben said. “We’re going out. My buddy the UN Rep from old mother Russia’s in town, and you’ve gotta show us that pizza place you found.”

Loki put down the report, and crossed his arms. “I thought you said that nothing in this pretzel-obsessed country could come close to New York’s level of perfection, so eating any pizza here would more or less be sacrilege?”

“Sure as shit didn’t use the word ‘sacrilege,’” Ben said. “But whatever, guy’s from Russia, what does he know? Proper Brooklyn pizza’d probably make his little pinko eyes explode outta his skull, better to start him off in the shallow end, right?”

“Mmmm,” Loki said. “Can you still call them pinkos?”

Ben shrugged. “Whatever. Come on, I know you don’t got any plans.”

Loki narrowed his eyes at Ben. Who faced down Loki’s glare with the same blank-faced stupid lug look he liked to pull whenever anyone, in Ben’s words, ‘tried to give him shit.’ 

With Ben, sometimes the direct approach was the only approach. 

“Ben, is this guy gay?”

Ben grinned. “Well I don’t know, didn’t get into the finer points of Anne Margaret’s underappreciated career with the guy, but hey, live and let live is what I say.”

For the good of all, Loki wouldn’t even touch the subject of Ben’s thoughts on Anne Margaret. “But you are trying to set us up.”

Ben shrugged. “I kinda know that things with Prince Victor Von Dipshit didn’t exactly work out. Thought you might wanna get out of your shell a bit.”

“You kinda... How do you know that? It only just... that was on _Monday_.”

“Hey, I’m connected,” Ben crossed over to Loki’s couch and settled into it with much creaking of leather. “Got my sources. Comes with the territory. Anyways, four days is enough of a grieving period. Time to get your rebound sex on, kid.”

“Wow,” Loki settled his elbows on his desk. “Really. Rebound sex?”

“The best kind,” Ben said. “And this guy’s all Eastern European, you know the gloomy ones are always into the kinkiest—”

“Oh god, stop, please,” Loki put his head in his hands. “I don’t want to date any Russians, Ben.”

“Why not, you took it in school, right? ‘S on your resume. Think of it as immersion,” Ben paused for effect. “ _Total_ immersion.”

“No, no, I am not having this conversation with you anymore,” Loki got to his feet. “I am in Berlin to _work_ , not to screw my way around the region.”

“‘The continent of Europe is so wide, Mein Herr,’” Ben sang, in a truly horrifying falsetto. “‘Not only up and down but side to side, Mein Herr.’”

“Does your wife know you’ve got _Cabaret_ memorized?”

“Oh yeah she does,” Ben drawled, getting up and following Loki out the door. 

“I don’t want to know,” Loki said firmly.

“I just don’t want you to get into your own head too much,” Ben said, as though his impromptu MCing had never happened. “You gotta get out some, meet some people, enjoy the life here.”

“You just don’t want me to leave you alone with Reed,” Loki grumbled, not even bothering to lower his voice as they passed the Ambassador’s office door (closed and dark; Richards was on vacation. Again). 

“Damn fucking straight,” Ben said. “I love Reed to death, we go way back, but I just wanna clobber the shit out of him sometimes. You can’t leave me alone with this guy.”

“Fixing me up with every diplomat or dignitary who isn’t a strict Kinsey 1 isn’t going to help that, Ben.”

“Nah, probably not,” Ben patted him on the shoulder, almost knocking him into the wall. “It’s entertaining as shit, though.”

Loki sighed. He waited until they got past the security desk, nodding at Lenz and Markus as the guards waved them through the metal detectors. Then he turned to Ben. 

“Not this guy though, okay?”

In a rare moment of sensitivity, Ben just nodded and looked thoughtfully at Loki. 

“Sorry things didn’t work out with Doom, kid. I didn’t mean anything funny, setting you two up.”

“No, I know.” 

It wasn’t really about Victor. But Loki didn’t really feel like going into it. He hadn’t spoken Russian in a while. He’d put it on his resume, sure. Because being able to speak three languages looks great on a resume, and he wasn’t going to even try and pass off his high school French as anything close to passible. But he could speak Russian. Technically. Not that he’d tried in years. Or felt any temptation to. 

“I’m serious about the gloomy ones though,” Ben said, dashing Loki’s contemplative moment to pieces. “Kinky, kinky shit. You know in St. Petersburg they have these clubs where all they give you is a mask and a piece of latex that you—”

“Ben, if you don’t shut the fuck up right now, I swear I’m going to run screaming all the way to Poland.”

~

Her name is Hel Turner. She’s impeccably dressed in a red skirt suit, her hair cut close against her scalp. She doesn’t smile, but she puts a hand out for Loki to shake, and there’s something reassuring in the firm strength of her grip. 

“Mr. Gard,” she says. “It’s a pleasure.”

“Thanks for coming over,” Tony says. He’s perched on a bar stool and has a mouth full of pizza, and Hel glances over at him with a look that rests right on the border between amused and annoyed. Loki can place the look easily. It’s how most of the people that Tony’s sucked into his orbit seem to look at him. 

“It’s alright,” she says. “No trouble at all.” 

“This is my friend, and data director for the campaign, Fenrir Argent,” Loki says. Fenrir, who had at least tried to discreetly wipe the pizza grease off his face when Hel came in, gets to his feet and shakes her hand too. 

She focuses on Loki again, all business. “Has Tony told you what I do, Mr. Gard?”

“No,” Loki says, probably sounding a little more petulant than he should, because Tony’s been a _dick_ about it all afternoon. 

Hel settles herself across the table from Loki, and folds her hands in front of her. “I’m the founder and President of Turner Communications, a crisis management firm in DC.”

Loki nods slowly. Heat rises up his neck, and he swallows hard. “I’ve heard of Turner Communications,” he says. He tries to keep his face neutral. Because he’s heard of them. And never, never thought that he’d be in the position of hiring them for himself. 

“There are plenty of things that can be said for the American value of absolute independence, up-by-your-own-bootstraps way of thinking,” Hel says, as though she can read Loki’s face clearly. “But in some cases, it’s more of a stumbling block than a source of strength.”

“Haven’t you heard?” Loki says, “I’m not an American.” He can see Fenrir flinch. He doesn’t look over at Tony. Loki keeps his eyes on Hel. 

“I heard,” she says, apparently unruffled by Loki’s outburst. “And I know that you’re grappling with a whole host of issues, most of them personal. I can’t help you with those. But I can help you with the professional side of what’s happened.”

Loki laughs. It sounds exactly as bitter as he means it to. “You mean the campaign?”

“Yes,” she says. “It’s not looking good, I won’t lie to you. But it’s manageable.”

“Manageable? Campaigns have been ended by much less than this,” Loki says. He hasn’t said it yet, not to Fenrir, not to Sif, not to anyone. But he’s been thinking it. On and off, ever since he woke up this morning, it’s been in the back of his mind. That this, this thing that he has sunk all his time, his energy, his passion into, is dead in the water. And that there’s nothing he can do about it. No amount of cleverness, or money, or even Hail Mary last-minute tricks can turn this around. 

“They have, but this one won’t be,” Hel says, with a shrug. 

When Loki just frowns at her, she leans forward a little. “The damage done is serious, but most of it has nothing to do with Thor at all. What ends campaigns and careers are lapses of judgement. Sleeping around. Making stupid deals with people you shouldn’t. Just plain acting like an idiot. Has Thor does any of those things?”

“That last one’s debatable,” Loki says. He doesn’t really want to hear what she’s saying, but there’s a growing lightness in his chest that he can’t quite stamp down. 

Hel doesn’t dignify the comment with any response. “What’s been revealed about your family not only has nothing to do with Thor, it doesn’t cast any negative light on him at all. As time goes by, and the initial furor settles, it’ll be hard for anyone to say anything against Thor on this. What, that he should have known? That he should have done something differently before yesterday? That this is all somehow his fault? At worst, there will be some tainting by association. But it can all be handled.”

Loki stares at her. Because what she’s saying... it makes sense. It does. But he almost doesn’t want to accept it. Because he doesn’t think he can lose hope again, with this. 

“I understand,” he says slowly. “That it’s your job to have confidence, in this situation. To tell me that everything’s going to be alright. But you can’t do that.” He stops, and clears his throat. “Please don’t do that. Here. I don’t—” he pinches the bridge of his nose, hard. “The campaign is important. To me.”

Which doesn’t come close. Not at all. But he can’t go on about this. Because he’s sitting at Tony’s table over a box of pizza, and he’s only just changed out of the clothes he was wearing when he found out his life was a lie into a t-shirt and jeans, and he hasn’t worn _jeans_ since before the campaign started. Jeans are casual clothes, weekend clothes, and he hasn’t had time for casual or weekends since...

Pinching his nose isn’t doing it. He switches to rubbing at his eyes. 

“I understand,” Hel says firmly. “I’m not in the business of telling you what you want to hear. That sort of thing is usually what gets my clients into trouble in the first place. So no, this isn’t just false confidence. It’s my professional assessment that this can be managed.” Her tone is all business. It’s not kind. Not gentle. 

And it’s perfect. 

Loki breathes in. And puts his hands flat on the table. “Alright,” he says. “What do I have to do?”

“Right now, nothing,” she says. “Put me in contact with your PR and communications people. And Thor. Between us, we’ll figure something out. You can be as involved in all of this as you want to be,” she adds. “Though I understand if it might take some time before you’re ready to leap back into the ring.”

“It might,” Loki says neutrally. He lets out a long breath. “Okay. Yes, We’ll— I’ll hire you. Send me the information about your fees, we’ll work all that out later. Fenrir, would you take her to the office, get her in touch with the right guys on our team?”

“Sure,” Fenrir says, not glancing between Loki and Tony at all, to his credit. He gets to his feet. 

Hel doesn’t. She seems, for the first time, to hesitate. 

“My grandfather’s wealth have my father a comfortable childhood, sent him to the finest prep schools and university, and put him through medical school,” she says. Looking intently at Loki, as though willing him to understand what she’s saynig. “I was in high school when my father discovered that that wealth had been made almost entirely by smuggling drugs and young girls into the country from sad, desperate little villages.”

She gets to her feet. “I’ll help through the professional problems, like I said. But I’ve also seen what it’s like to have the rug ripped out from under you. To have the foundations you’ve built on turn out to be not only different than you’d thought they were, but not there at all. My family’s gone into that particular freefall.”

Loki looks up at her. “And?” He says, voice small. 

“And,” she smiles slightly. “It does change everything. But life goes on. And after a while, there are times when you can forget about it. Just for moments, minutes at a time. And then longer. So gradually you don’t even notice. Life will go on.”

He doesn’t have it in him to respond to that, but fortunately she doesn’t wait for him to. 

“I’ll be in touch, Mr. Gard,” she says. And then she and Fenrir head out, Fenrir nodding at Loki before he leads Hel back out to the foyer. 

Loki stares at his hands. 

“You doing okay?” 

He almost leaps out of his skin, because he had almost entirely forgotten that Tony was there. 

“Yeah. Yes,” he says, turning around to face Tony. Who is, incredibly, still holding his slice of pizza. “Thank you for calling her.”

“Of course,” Tony says. He puts the pizza down. “Do you—”

“Can I just have a second?” Loki says. “Sorry, this is your apartment, I just—”

“Yeah,” Tony gets up at once. And leaves Loki alone, without saying another word. 

Loki doesn’t watch him go. He stares at his hands. At the jut of bones in his wrists, the network of veins running over the back of his hands, the stretch of tendons and knots of knuckles. Substantial. Strong. His.

He hasn’t lost everything. He hasn’t. He hasn’t. 

~

Loki traveled. 

He’d never been able to do study abroad in school. He’d planned to, his junior year at Berkeley. But transferring to Georgetown had been a nightmare of credits and prerequisites he hadn’t met, so he’d had too much catching up to do. He certainly could have graduated college in more than four years. And it hadn’t been because of some sort of stigma, or lack of funds, or anything. Just Loki’s unholy drive to finish. Because he would graduate college, and then things would _happen_. 

And they had. Living in Berlin, Loki could rent a car or jump on a train and get to most of the continent. And he did, whenever he could. 

He walked across the remains of Hadrian’s Wall. He climbed to the top of Arthur’s Seat. He let strangers put beads around his neck and almost fell into a canal during Carnivale in Venice. He screamed himself hoarse at the Palio di Siena. He stood at the top of Notre Dame, and climbed back down to just sit inside it for almost an hour. He stayed out all night in Helsinki, bright and warm under the midnight sun. 

He did it all alone. Or mostly. Ben took him on some trips. Guys he was seeing (not always dignitaries, despite Ben’s best efforts) showed him their home towns, though it didn’t often get that serious. But otherwise, he travelled alone. 

Loki liked it that way. 

~

He was sitting canalside in Amsterdam, sipping a light prosecco and looking out at the water when the hotel’s concierge had called him inside for an important phone call. Because his brother had been wounded in action, they might have to amputate a leg, and they were flying him out of Afghanistan immediately. 

Loki’d made one more call, to book a plane ticket for the next flight back to the States. And he’d walked out of the hotel into the cab, without bothering to pack. He travelled light, anyway. And as the cab peeling through the smattering of early-evening drivers on its way to the airport, he couldn’t think of a single thing he owned that seemed even the least bit important right now. 

~

Thor’s stayed under the radar. Three days have gone by, and he hasn’t given any interviews. Hasn’t appeared in public much at all. His staff of bodyguards is terrifyingly well-equipped to handle the crowd of reporters that dog him from his and Jane’s brownstone to Odin and Frigga’s and back again, and Thor doesn’t seem to be bothered by the shouted questions, the flashbulbs going off in his face. 

He has released one statement, actually: My family and I need to work through this thing by ourselves, please respect that. Or something along those lines. Loki hasn’t been watching the news, so he doesn’t know exactly. But Tony’s mentioned something about it. 

Tony. 

He’s sitting on the couch next to Loki. And has been, on and off all day. Loki hasn’t moved much. He’s spread out papers, a laptop, his phone over the coffee table, and has been trying to get work done. Everything is a fucking mess, but Hel Turner and her team are incredibly making it less and less of a mess by the hour. And Loki’s doing his part, getting back involved, making calls and starting to slowly slide back into the space he’d left behind after the benefit. 

Which Tony, clearly, doesn’t find that interesting. He’ll settle on the couch with a book. Then vanish, only to return later with a tablet and a giant glass of some kind of energy drink that’s vividly green and smells powerfully like apricots. He got up at one point and spread out drafting paper— actual _paper_ , Loki wasn’t even sure that Tony had any in the apartment— over the kitchen table and sketched for an hour, only to ball it all up and throw it away after a few minutes’ silent contemplation of his work. 

Loki can’t decide if it’s making him nuts or not. But since Tony is apparently now napping, and not being otherwise noisy or moving around, it’s not worth it to wake him up to get him to leave. 

Fenrir’s gone. He hasn’t come back to the tower since he left with Hel, though he’s called a few times. Less for actual campaign stuff, since as data director he isn’t as mired in this mess as Loki is, and more just to check in on Loki. Pepper’s also been in and out, though she’d stopped in to say goodnight at around seven. Dinner date with Happy, apparently. 

So it’s just the two of them, and the sun already setting behind Loki, through Tony’s huge windows. The whole wall in front of him is painted in a rosey pinkish orange light, and the sun’s warm against the back of his neck. He doesn’t turn around to look at the sunset though. He wraps things up with Don, and sets his phone down in front of him. 

Tony is lying on his side. Like an overlarge cat. Loki can’t pretend that more than ten years have made every memory fuzzy: Tony used to take up every available part of the couch, arms thrown up over his head, head sometimes tipped right back over the arm of the couch, one leg kicked up onto the back of the couch or on the floor. Now Tony’s sleeping curled up in a ball, hands wrapped around his stomach and legs pulled up tightly under him. It doesn’t look like it could possibly be comfortable, but his face is relaxed, angled back enough that Loki can see that his mouth is a little open, his eyelids moving like he’s—

Loki’s phone goes off, and he almost falls off the fucking couch. 

“Fzzup?” Tony says blearily, blinking at Loki for a second before letting his head fall back on the couch again. 

Loki doesn’t bother saying anything, just checks the caller ID: Sif.

“Hey,” he says. 

“Have you talked to Thor yet?” She says. 

Loki sighs. No, is the short answer. There are nine voicemail messages and about 14 missed calls from Thor, all of which Loki has either not listened to or not picked up, is the longer answer. To Sif, he doesn’t say anything. Because she knows the answer already. 

“Well, turn on the TV, okay, he’s making a statement.”

Loki hesitates. “Which channel?”

“Come on, Loki. All of them. You think anyone’s not going to run this?” And she hangs up. 

Tony mutters something that’s mostly inaudible, curls in a little tighter on himself, and goes quiet. 

“Shit,” Loki says to himself, quietly. Holds the phone in his palm, glances at Tony. Who is still out like a light. 

He can’t ignore Thor forever. He knows that, rationally. But every time he sees a call coming in, every time he looks at the little count on his voicemail icon, he just... he can’t do it. 

But he’s reaching out for his laptop before he lets himself think about it. He’s a grownup. Loki’s family and his career have been blown apart, all in one blow. He’s putting his career back together again. And Thor’s a part of that. Family too, though Loki’s past being able to imagine how those pieces can ever be fit back into any kind of whole. 

CNN is streaming online, and it looks like Thor’s already started. Which is fine with Loki, he doesn’t want to recap the last few days and sit through more speculation, rehashing, the pundits ripping into every piece of the benefit footage for more to smear the Gard family with. No, he’d rather skip all that. Though Thor’s face popping up as soon as the stream has loaded hits Loki right in the gut.

His first thought is that Thor looks like hell. He looks exhausted, and sad. No, it’s more than that. It’s like he was when he first got back from Afghanistan, like there were no words for the depth of fatigue and grief he was carrying, no way he would ever be able to smile past them again. 

“—with my family, which we appreciate,” Thor takes a deep breath. This isn’t pre-recorded, and someone had the bright idea for Thor to do this standing up. It’s not an issue, Loki knows it’s not an issue, Thor’s told him again and again that it’s not an issue, but it’s hard not to look at how Thor braces himself against the podium and see it as a way to take the weight off his bad leg. 

“Growing up, my brothers and I were told that our family was special. Everyone from teachers, to friends, to the newspapers our parents read every morning made that clear to us. And we knew it. We were well aware of it.

“And I agreed with all of that. Because there were things that were special about my family. My dad could pick all three of us up with one arm. My mom could sing better than anyone on any stage on Broadway. My big brother could run faster than anyone else in the seventh grade. My little brother was reading by the time he was four. Yeah, we were special. But not in the way that I kept getting told we were special. I didn’t care about that stuff, when I was just growing up.”

Loki is resting his forehead on his clenched fists, almost hunched over the keyboard. His jaw is clenched tight, and his breathing feels ragged and rough in his chest. 

“To me we were a normal family,” Thor is saying. “And even when I got older, the Gards who were so worthy of media attention were just my mom and dad, my brothers. My family.” Thor takes a deep breath. 

“I’ve had a long talk with my parents about the story that broke four days ago. That my brother Loki, who is also my campaign manager, was illegally adopted and is the birth son of Peter Lukov, a criminal who blinded my father in a fit of insane rage,” Thor’s mouth twists, an involuntary gesture. “And it is true. That part of it, that the strands of my brother’s DNA match up with those of a man he’s never seen in his life, that is true.

“And I won’t excuse anything my father did,” Thor said, and he is angry now, Loki can tell. He thinks, for the first time, of the conversations that Thor was having with their parents. And he feels instantly a little guilty, for not considering this before. “He broke the law, he abused his position and power, and all of that is unacceptable. But I have to be perfectly clear. Loki Gard is my brother. He has always been my brother, he will always be my brother, and nothing that I’ve learned in the past few days has changed any of that. 

“My family is still recovering from the blow we’ve been dealt, a blow that I can’t say wasn’t of our own making. But right now, I have no plans to stop my campaign. I will continue my run for office, with my campaign manager, my best friend, my brother right beside me. Like he’s always been. And I couldn’t be more proud of him, or more grateful to have him in my life.”

Eyes bright, mouth pressed down in a resolute line, Thor steps back from the podium. Before he steps out of frame, before the talking heads can start squawking about what all this means, Loki slaps his laptop shut and pushes it away from him. Too hard; it slides across the table and onto the floor with a crash. 

He rocks down, pressing his forehead into his knees. His hands are tight in his own hair, pressing so hard into his skull he’s sure they’ll just pass right through the bone. That wouldn’t be so bad. It would stop the noise there at least, the high shriek of everything that he’s forced back, and forced back, and forced back for days. 

And then there are hands on him, an arm around his back and a hand on his shoulder and Tony murmuring “easy, easy,” into Loki’s ear. 

Loki doesn’t manage much more than a strangled, pained noise. Tony’s hands tighten on him, and, and yes, he can feel Tony’s knees pressing into the side of his thigh, Tony’s chest and side warm over his back as Tony pulls him in closer into a half hug. 

Tony doesn’t say anything else, just holds him. Loki’s hands loosen in his hair, and his breathing slowly evens out. It hurts though, it all hurts, and he doesn’t want to get up, doesn’t want to move at all. 

“What did you think he was going to say?” Tony says softly. 

Loki shakes his head. “I don’t know,” he says. “I didn’t— I didn’t think—” 

He slowly sits up. Tony’s lets go of him, but he doesn’t sit back on the couch. His knees are still touching Loki’s thigh, somehow warm through two layers of fabric. And he’s so close that just leaning a little to the right would push their bodies together.

Loki looks at him. The sun is still going down behind them, the orange light going firey as it sinks further down below the line of midtown’s lower buildings. It does things to Tony’s eyes, his hair, his eyelashes, the line of his mouth and his nose. It’s easier to think about than Thor, in a way. But worse, way worse. Because Loki can see the temptation in it, can recognize it, can feel how hard his pulse is pounding through his skin. 

“What are you doing here?” Loki asks, voice low. 

Tony’s eyebrows shoot up. “Uh. I live here?”

“You know what I mean,” Loki says. He puts his hand out for balance, fingertips pressing into the couch just next to Tony’s leg. Tony’s eyes flick down just for a moment, then back up to Loki’s face. “Why are you doing this? All of this?”

Tony studies him. “What?” he says, after a moment. “You really don’t know?” Tony’s hands are fisted tightly in his lap, his shoulders a rigid line of tension. Holding himself in place. Holding himself away from Loki, as much as he can, maybe. Just by a thread, but he’s doing it. 

Loki swallows hard. He wonders how strong that thread of control is. 

“I think I do.”

Tony nods slowly, and lets out a low breath. “Good. Okay. So, you know I’ll be here. Whenever you figure out what you want to do about it. If anything.”

Loki... has no idea what to do with himself. Because _something_ is rushing through him, so hot and strong and powerful that he’s sure there’s some reaction he wants to have, something he _wants_ to do. But he has no idea if it’s push Tony away from him or just push him down onto the couch. 

He stumbles to his feet instead, putting two shaky steps between him and Tony. 

Because he knows what he has to do. 

“I need to call Thor,” Loki says, turning back to look at Tony. He’s sitting on the couch, looking up at Loki. Lit from behind now, his features are harder to make out. Harder to read. But he’s not upset. There’s something measuring in how he’s looking at Loki. And he’s definitely smiling, at least a little. The tension’s gone out of his shoulders and arms, and he’s relaxed enough to lean back, thighs parted just a bit. 

Loki steps forward, and pulls himself up short. Whatever movement he was going to make is redirected towards the table, where he picks up his phone. 

“I’ll see you tomorrow, Tony,” he says. 

“See you tomorrow, Loki,” Tony says. He doesn’t move, doesn’t get to his feet. Just stays kneeling on the couch, looking at Loki. “Sleep tight.”

Loki turns and heads out of the room, through the turns of halls and other rooms and up a set of stairs until he gets to the one he’s been sleeping in. He’s more familiar with this apartment than he ever thought he would be, and only three days have still made it feel... known. Comfortable.

Not comfortable enough for him to throw things until he feels better, once he gets to his room. But comfortable enough to sink to the floor in front of the wall of windows, this one facing east onto a view that’s lit up with nothing but a purpling sky and the lights of this city that never sleeps. Loki rests his head against the pane, letting the cool glass seep into his skin. 

Then he picks up his phone. 

And he calls his brother. 

  
[](http://imgur.com/SqBod6F)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm so sorry the long wait, and for confusing everyone with the not-an-update earlier today! 
> 
> Hel is inspired by [ Judy Smith ](http://www.judysmith.com), who is also the inspiration for the show "Scandal." The chain of meta who-inspired-what is so great. I bet we can get to Kevin Bacon from here. 
> 
> Credit for Ben's line about Anne Margaret very much goes to the movie Latter Days. Which Ben has probably seen, though Loki also probably doesn't want to know about that. 
> 
> Most importantly, PEOPLE MADE STUFF. speakingfiguratively made [ this amazing art for chapter 1 ](http://speakingfiguratively.tumblr.com/post/47003367408), and wrecked-anon made the [ most amazing playlist ](http://wrecked-anon.tumblr.com/post/51889147341/love-was-a-country-we-couldnt-defend-a-fanmix) for chapters 1-4. They are awesome and fantastic and I love them. 
> 
> Endlesss thanks as always to vilefangirl for her mind-blowing art and excellent betaing!

**Author's Note:**

> Eternal thanks to fiercynn for letting me mine her life experience for fannish purposes. Double plus eternal thanks to vilefangirl for fantastic betaing, awesome art, and very patient explanations of how NYC works.
> 
> I'm sparklyslug on tumblr, come and say hi!


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